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GHOSTLY  COLLOQUIES. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF 


'LETTERS  FROM  ROME,"   "CLOUDS   AND   SUNSHINE," 

ETC- 


NEW  YORK: 
D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY, 

846    &    348    BROADWAY, 
M.  DCCC.lv  I. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  CongreiS,  In  the  year  1855,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


XSVOPlh 


CONTENTS 


»-•-• 

PAQB 

Cadmts — Columbus 5 

Sophocles — Gk  at 26 

Salvatoe  Kosa — Bteox 47 

HoETENsnjs — Beokfoed 69 

Jason — Raleigh , 90 

Tacitus — Gibbon 113 

Apicius — Vatel 137 

SeJANUS — RiCHAED  III 160 

-Maecus  Beutus — John  Adams 183 

Peaxiteleb — Canota 205 

Peteonius — D'Obsay 225 

Geemanicus — RiENzi 247 


c::  r;,  -i  <~  -^ 


tLM^.i'Jll^X. 


A3 


GHOSTLY    COLLOQUIES. 


CADMUS— COLUMBUS. 

[SCENE— CEYSTAL  PALACE.] 

Cad.  Well,  brother,  here  we  are  again,  at  the 
place  from  which  we  started  ;  right  under  this 
beautiful  dome,  and  vis-a-vis  to  your  own  statue. 
And  now,  my  dear  friend,  do  tell  me  ;  of  all  this 
world  of  wonders,  what  one  object  has  most  im- 
pressed you  ?  or  have  you,  like  myself,  been  so 
dazzled  and  bewildered,  that  you  cannot  answer 
the  question  ? 

Col.  Not  at  all ;  not  at  all.  I  reply  at  once, 
and  emphatically,  the  submarine  telegraph. 

Cad.  Ah? 

Col.  Yes  ;  this  last  development  of  the  great 

invention  is,  to  me,  the  crowning  triumph  here. 

The  more  I  think  of  it,  of  the  labors  that  are  in 

store  for  it,  and  of  the  momeutous  results  to  hu- 

o  *^- -i-      -^<j 


6  CADMUS — COLUMBUS, 

manity  involved  in  those  labors,  the  more  and 
more  is  my  admiration  excited. 

Cad.  A  cunning  contrivance,  truly  !  And  so 
you  really  think,  brother,  that  this  machine  will 
do  its  work  as  promptly  and  faithfully,  under  the 
ocean,  as  on  terra  firma  ? 

Col.  I  do. 

Cad.  And  that  there  will  be  regular  lines  of 
wire,  in  successful  operation,  direct,  between  this 
metropolis  and  the  sea- ports  of  Europe  ? 

Col.  I  have  no  doubt  of  it  whatever.  The 
experiments  already  tried,  the  explanations  and 
comments  of  the  exhibitor,  and  my  own  reflections, 
all  impel  me  to  believe  in  the  entire  practicability 
of  the  scheme.  A  very  few  years,  I  have  no 
doubt,  will  show  to  mortals  at  least  half  a  dozen 
such  lines  as  you  describe,  in  profitable  employ- 
ment between  the  two  continents.  The  example 
thus  set  will  assuredly  be  followed  in  the  Pacific, 
and  Asia  and  America  be  similarly  connected  ; 
and  so  the  good  work  will  go  on,  till,  in  time, 
the  whole  globe  will  be  covered  with  a  complete 
network  of  electric  communication. 

Cad.  You  really  think  so  ? 

Col.  I  certainly  do.  I  believe  that  all  the 
islands  of  the  Pacific,  nay,  of  all  seas,  will  be  thus 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  7 

bound  together,  and  to  the  main  land  on  either 
side  of  them,  by  this  regular  interchange  of  facts 
and  ideas  ;  in  a  word,  that  there  will  be  as 
thorough  a  system  of  subaqueous  intercourse  by 
lightning,  the  world  over,  as  we  see  already  de- 
veloped and  developing,  on  land. 

Cad.  Let  me  understand  you,  brother.  Do 
you  really  mean  to  say,  that  you  believe  that  day 
will  ever  dawn  on  earth,  when  the  merchant  of 
Lima,  for  instance,  will  send  a  message  to  his  cor- 
respondent at  Jeddo,  and  receive  a  submarine  an- 
swer that  same  morning  ? 

Col.  I  do.  What  is  there  more  strange  in 
that,  Cadmus,  than  that  the  guest  at  a  New  York 
hotel  should,  from  the  office  thereof,  despatch  a 
similar  missive  to  his  kinsman  at  New  Orleans, 
and  get  an  answer  before  his  breakfast  is  fairly 
cold  ?  You  smile  incredulously,  brother  ;  but  I 
repeat  it,  I  see  no  limits,  save  those  of  the  globe 
itself,  to  the  labors,  no  end  to  the  journey ings  of 
this  mysterious  messenger  ;  say  rather,  this  divine- 
ly appointed  agent  in  the  great  work  of  civilization. 
That  it  will  do  its  part  in  that  work,  all  over  the 
earth,  I  cannot  doubt ;  nor  do  I  believe  that  many 
centuries  will  have  elapsed,  before  these  same  wires 
will   be   found,    not    merely   scaling    the   loftiest 


8  CADMUS — COLUMBUS. 

mountains,  and  threading  the  most  sechided  val- 
leys of  every  land,  but  forcing  their  way  through 
the  most  inhospitable  seas,  delivering  their  mes- 
sages on  the  shores  of  the  remotest  gulfs. 

Cad.  Why,  brother,  you  grow  enthusiastic. 
But  are  you  not  a  little  too  sanguine  in  this  mat- 
ter ?  I  can't  agree  with  you,  I  confess  ;  nor  do  I 
believe  the  world  will  ever  be  populous  or  pros- 
perous, or  enlightened  enough,  to  furnish  the 
means  for  any  such  magnificent  consummation. 

Col.  Well,  Cadmus,  time  will  show  which  of 
us  is  right.  I  am  not  blind  to  the  intrinsic  diffi- 
culties of  the  undertaking,  nor  to  the  enormous 
expenditure  of  capital  and  labor  implied  in  such  a 
result  ;  but,  I  repeat  it,  my  friend,  I  believe  that 
human  ingenuity  will  solve  the  problem  most  satis- 
factorily, and  that  ere  long,  every  maritime  nation 
will  have  its  regular  oceanic  telegraph  companies, 
working  as  faithfully  as  those  on  shore,  and  in 
God's  good  season,  rewarding  their  stockholders 
with  the  same  copious  dividends. 

Cad.  Never,  never,  never.  Excuse  me,  Chris- 
topher, but  you  seem  to  me  quite  visionary  on  this 
subject. 

Col.  Well,  I'm  used  to  that  epithet,  Cadmus. 
Ever  since  I  had  an  opinion  of  my  own,  it  has 


CADMUS— COLtTMBUS.  9 

been  flung  at  me  ;  ay,  and  not  merely  by  bigoted 
ecclesiastics,  and  sneering  courtiers,  but  the  veiy 
beggars  in  the  streets  were  taught  to  annoy  me 
with  it ;  in  more  planets  than  one,  too  ;  and  yet, 
brother,  my  visions  have  uniformly,  up  to  this 
blessed  hour,  fallen  far,  far  short  of  God's  realities. 
I  hardly  expected  the  adjective,  -though,  I  must 
say,  from  such  an  illustrious  old  salt  and  brother- 
colonizer  as  yourself. 

Cad.  I  retract  it,  with  all  my  heart.  At  the 
same  time,  you  are  expecting  quite  too  much  from 
this  same  telegraph,  depend  upon  it. 

Col.  Perhaps  I  am.  Is  it  strange,  though, 
Cadmus,  that  I  should  have  been  stirred  up  by  it  ? 
When  I  think  of  the  wonders  it  has  already  done 
in  America,  in  the  few  brief  years  of  its  existence  5 
what  a  necessary  of  life  it  has  become,  not  merely 
to  the  merchant,  the  statesman,  the  editor,  but  to 
all  callings  and  professions  ;  how  it  gives  alike  the 
cue  and  impulse  to  all  the  other  motive  powers  of 
society  ;  how  all  the  business  of  the  land  seems  to 
beat  time,  as  it  were,  to  its  music  ;  what  grand 
gatherings,  whether  of  soldiers  or  of  scholars,  it  can 
bring  together,  at  a  moment's  warning,  for  action 
or  consultation  ;  what  grand  masses  of  statistics  it 
can  accumulate,  in  a  moment  of  emergency,  at  any 


10  CADMUS — COLUMBtTS. 

great  centre  of  trade,  or  of  legislation  ;  when  I  see, 
too,  what  a  bond  of  union  it  is  to  this  great  repub- 
lic, what  a  strong  arm  to  the  magistrate,  what  a 
terror  to  the  evil-doer  ;  when  I  see  the  added 
power  and  value  its  ministrations  give  to  every 
bright  thought,  and  wise  suggestion  ;  how  much 
more  precious  than  ever  before  it  makes  a  good 
name,  and  how  it  multiplies  a  thousand-fold  the 
infamy  of  guilt  ;  when  I  see  the  murderer,  or  the 
defraudcr  hemmed  in  by  these  terrible  wires,  his 
guilty  secret  blazoned  forth,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  in  every  city  of  the  land,  staring  him  in  the 
face  in  every  spot  where  he  vainly  seeks  a  refuge 
from  the  finger  of  scorn  ;  when  I  think,  in  short, 
of  the  innumerable  errands  on  which  these  myste- 
rious agents  are  posting  continually,  and  with  the 
speed  of  thought  all  over  the  country,  from  the 
most  important  state  paper,  down  to  the  humblest 
grief-or-joy-laden  missive  ; — is  it  strange,  my  dear 
Cadmus,  when  I  think  of  all  these  things,  that  I 
should  be  filled  with  enthusiasm  on  this  subject ; 
that  I  should  in  my  zeal,  anticipate,  somewhat, 
the  wonders  which  this  mighty  invention  is  yet 
destined  to  achieve ;  or  even  look  forward  to 
others,  not  fairly,  perhaps,  within  the  scope  of  its 
powers  ? 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  11 

Cad.  My  dear  fellow,  you  have  abundantly  vin- 
dicated your  enthusiasm,  certainly. 

Col.  But,  Cadmus,  I  will  not  presume  to  paint 
the  future  of  the  telegraph.  That  it  will  find  its 
way  in  time,  by  sea  and  land,  all  over  the  earth, 
I  must  again  express  my  conviction  ;  and  that  it 
has  a  world-wide  function  to  fulfil,  not  merely  as 
a  courier,  but  as  a  teacher,  a  peacemaker,  a  re- 
former. But  the  theme  is  too  lofty  and  compli- 
cated a  one  to  be  discussed  thus  in  casual  con- 
versation, and  I  will  not  pursue  it.  And  now, 
brother  of  Thebes,  let  me  put  your  own  question 
to  you,  in  return.  Which,  of  this  grand  congre- 
gation of  things  useful  and  beautiful,  from  all 
lands,  has  pleased  you  most  ? 

Cad.  Well,  as  I  intimated  before,  I  can  hardly 
reply  with  the  same  promptness  that  you  did. 
Let  me  see  ;  on  the  whole,  and  as  being  somewhat 
in  my  department,  I  think  the  Alphabet  for  the 
Blind  gratified  me  about  as  much  as  any  tiling. 
You  were  struck  with  it,  too,  I  noticed. 

Col.  I  was,  indeed  ;  quite  charmed,  both  with 
the  benevolence  of  the  idea,  and  the  ingenuity 
with  which  it  was  carried  out.  Those  stories  for 
blind  children,  especially  pleased  me.  I  couldn't 
help  fancying  how  the  poor  young  things  must  feel, 


12  CADMUS — COLUMBUS. 

when  spelling  them  out  with  their  little  fingers, 
for  the  first  time. 

Cad.  I  hardly  need  add,  that  the  stationery, 
also,  deeply  interested  me  ;  such  a  wonderful  im- 
provement, in  every  way,  on  our  Phoenician  ar- 
rangements. 

Col  No  doubt. 

Cad.  Those  gold  pens,  particularly,  caught  my 
eye.  Such  exquisite  specimens  of  workmanship, 
and  containing  such  a  little  world  of  conveniences 
in  so  narrow  a  compass  ;  very  difierent,  Columbus, 
from  the  reeds  I  used  to  write  my  exercises  with 
when  a  boy. 

Col.  Quills  were  not  used,  then,  in  your  day  ? 

Cad.  They  were  not. 

Col.  While  I  think  of  it,  Cadmus,  is  it  true, 
as  history  and  tradition  say,  that  you  were  the 
first  to  present  a  set  of  letters  to  the  Greeks  ? 
Were  they  indeed  so  benighted,  as  not  to  know 
the  use  of  these  articles  before  your  arrival  ?  I 
have  sometimes  thought,  I  confess,  that  the  state- 
ment was  a  good  deal  exaggerated.  How  is  it  ? 
Candidly  now,  is  there  not  rather  more  fame  to 
yeur  credit,  on  father  Time's  books,  than  you  are 
entitled  to  ? 

Cad.  There  is,  there  is.     I  certainly  did  find 


CADMUS— COLUMBUS,  13 

quite  a  respectable  alphabet  in  Greece,  when  I  put 
in  there.  There  were  a  few  absentees,  to  be  sure, 
and  one  or  two  letters  sadly  out  of  repair.  The 
A  B  C  of  the  whole  matter,  Christopher,  is  sim- 
ply this  :  I  made  some  few  desirable  additions  to 
their  stock,  mended  the  sliape  of  some  of  their  nu- 
merals, overhauled  their  marks  of  punctuation, 
threw  in  a  few  abbreviations,  and  other  little  con- 
veniences ;  but,  above  all,  gave  them  a  compara- 
tively smooth,  and  flexible,  and  portable  material 
to  write  upon,  in  the  shape  of  palm-leaves ;  and 
likewise,  a  faint  approach  to  a  fluent  and  color- 
keeping  ink,  to  dip  their  reeds  in. 

Col.  Indeed,  why  these  were  most  important 
improvements,  brother. 

Cad.  Miserable  trash,  of  course,  compared  with 
the  magnificent  specimens  that  we  have  seen  here 
to-day.  Still,  it  was  a  good  deal  better  than  hav- 
ing to  plough  one's  way  through  wax,  every  time 
one  accepted  an  invitation  to  dinner,  or  cutting 
out  all  one's  sums  on  leather,  or  chiselling  away  on 
marble,  every  time  a  mortgage  was  to  be  executed. 
It  certainly  did  facilitate  business  somewhat,  and 
gave  an  impulse  to  our  Boeotian  literature,  which 
it  really  needed  at  the  time. 

Col.  I  should  think  so. 


14  CADMUS — COLtJMBtJS. 

Cad.  At  the  heels  of  these  improvements,  I 
strove  to  introduce  a  current  hand  into  Greece  ; 
but,  Columbus,  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts,  I  never 
lived  to  see  such  a  thing. 

Col.  Indeed  ? 

Cad.  Nothing  worthy  of  the  name.  I  ought 
not,  perhaps,  to  have  expected  it,  with  such  mate- 
rials. So  long  as  we  crept  over  the  leaf,  all  was 
well ;  but  the  moment  we  undertook  to  go  fast, 
Dio  mio  !  such  splashing,  and  blotting,  and  spat- 
tering !  Indeed,  brother,  I  have  seen  no  more 
striking  illustration  of  the  progress  of  society  here 
below,  than  the  contrast  between  the  frightful  per- 
formances of  my  pupils  in  this  line,  and  those  in- 
credibly rapid  and  beautiful  feats  of  penmanship, 
we  witnessed  here  this  very  morning. 

Col.  Very  handsomely  done,  certainly. 

Cad.  Another  thing  here  struck  me  exceed- 
ingly. 

Col.  Ah,  what  was  that  ? 

Cad.  I  refer  to  that  superb  set  of  books  in  the 
salamander  safe  to  which  that  wonderful  lock  was 
attached.  I  did  not  quite  fathom  the  mystery  of 
the  lock,  I  confess,  notwithstanding  the  copious, 
though  somewhat  rapid  explanations  of  the  pa- 
tentee. 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  15 

Col.  Nor  I. 

Cad.  But  the  books  were  magnificent.  Oh, 
what  binding  ! 

Col.  Exquisite  workmanship,  both  safe  and 
contents.  You  had  no  such  conveniences,  I  be- 
lieve, in  Tyre  or  Sidon. 

Cad.  Nothing  of  the  sort  ;  nor  any  occasion, 
indeed,  for  day-book  or  ledger  in  my  day. 

Col.  1  supposed  the  credit  system  was  but  fee- 
bly developed  in  Phoenicia.  Your  palm-leaf  circu- 
lation was  very  limited,  was  it  not  ? 

Cad.  Our  business,  brother,  was  strictly  for 
cash,  and  on  a  purely  metallic  basis. 

Col.  That  was  my  impression.  And  yet  the 
commerce  of  Tyre  must  have  been  enormous  at 
one  time. 

Cad.  Yes,  indeed.  The  arrivals  of  gold  dust 
there,  were  very  large  and  frequent,  even  in  my 
day.  And,  brother,  had  the  idea  ever  occurred  to 
them,  they  could  have  got  up  quite  a  respectable 
World's  Fair,  let  me  tell  you. 

Col.  No  doubt  of  it.  I  hardly  know  an  an- 
cient city,  that  I  should  have  preferred  seeing. 
What  a  gorgeous  description  that  which  our  holy 
prophet  gives  of  her  !  My  favorite  chapter, 
brother,  when  a  boy. 


16  CADMUS — COLUMBUS, 

Cad.  I  dare  say.  Well,  well,  poor  town,  she 
had  her  day  ;  and  a  pretty  gay  one  it  was.  Sidon, 
however,  was  the  great  entrepot,  when  I  flourished. 

Col.  True,  true. 

Cad.  Ah,  dear  me  !  Do  you  know,  Christo- 
pher, that  it  will  be  exactly  thirty-three  centuries 
to-morrow,  since  I  left  that  port,  on  my  first  ter- 
restrial voyage  ? 

Col.  God  bless  me  !  Thirty-three  centuries  ? 
Whither  were  you  bound  ? 

Cad.  To  the  Cassiterides.  I  was  a  mere  chick- 
en at  the  time,  and  like  yourself,  no  doubt,  crazy 
after  the  sea.  In  vain,  however,  did  I  teaze  my 
royal  parent  for  leave  to  embark.  He  would  not 
listen  to  the  proposition.  So  what  must  I  do,  but 
bribe  the  first  mate  to  smuggle  me  aboard  in  a 
bale  of  goods. 

Col.  Ah  ;  how  large  a  vessel  pray  ? 

Cad.  A  caravel  of  about  fifty  tons. 

Col.  Indeed  .''  the  same  size  as  my  old  Santa 
Maria.     What  was  your  cargo  ? 

Cad.  Well,  cotton  and  woollen  cloths,  beads, 
trinkets,  some  little  cutlery,  but  principally  palm 
wine,  which  the  inhabitants  of  those  benighted 
islands  dearly  loved,  and  which,  with  the  other  ar- 
ticles, we  were  right  willing  to  exchange  for  their 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  17 

tin,  at  fancy  prices.  Ah,  dear,  what  a  tumultuous 
time  we  had  of  it !  I  needn't  tell  you  how  sick, 
terrified,  and  repentant  the  bad  boy  was  :  the  old 
story,  brother. 

Col.  But  how  long  a  passage  had  you  ? 

Cad.  Let  me  see.  If  I  remember  rightly,  it 
was  on  the  morning  of  the  one  hundred  and  seven- 
ty-seventh day  out,  that  we  first  went  ashore  at 
Cornwall. 

Col.  Not  very  brilliant  sailing  that,  Cadmus. 

Cad.  The  Agenor  was  no  clipper,  certainly. 
However,  we  had  a  terrible  north-easter  to  contend 
with,  which  blew  nearly  fifty  days  without  inter- 
mission. We  came  very  near  anticipating  your 
discoveries,  at  one  time. 

Col.  I  wish  you  had,  with  all  my  heart.  But 
how  did  your  father  receive  you,  on  your  re- 
turn ? 

Cad.  He  never  forgave  me  for  it,  and,  indeed, 
banished  me  for  ever  from  his  presence.  He  died 
two  years  after.  I  know  the  tradition  now  current 
on  earth  is,  that  he  sent  me  and  my  brothers  in 
search  of  a  runaway  sister,  with  orders  never  to 
return  without  her.  There  is  not  a  syllable  of 
truth  in  it. 

Col.  And  how  about  that  cannibal  of  a  dragon. 


18  CADMUS — COLUMBUS. 

that  guarded  the  waters  that  were  sacred  to  Mars  ? 
What  are  we  to  understand  by  that  ? 

Cad.  Poh,  poh  !  That  was  merely  a  fanciful 
way  of  setting  forth  the  difficulties,  perils,  diseases, 
bloodshed,  that  necessarily  enter  into  every  great 
scheme  of  colonization.  Your  own  experience  is 
ample  on  that  point,  surely. 

Col.  Yes,  indeed  !  But  the  teeth,  brother, 
the  teeth  :  they  tell  us  you  sowed  the  teeth,  and 
reaped  soldiers. 

Cad.  Sowed  teeth  and  reaped  soldiers  ?  That's 
a  puzzle,  I  confess  :  most  likely,  some  sneer  at  my 
alphabetical  labors.  But,  Columbus,  I  must  not 
weary  you  with  any  more  of  my  old  reminiscences. 

Col,  Not  at  all ;  I  believe  in  overhauling  these 
venerable  fibs,  occasionally.  But,  brother,  what 
are  you  looking  at  so  earnestly  ? 

Cad.  I  ask  your  pardon.  I  was  merely  count- 
ing noses.  Do  you  know,  I  have  been  very  much 
surprised  and  grieved  to  find  so  few  people  here 
this  morning  ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  There  are 
positively  more  statues  than  visitors  in  sight,  this 
very  moment. 

Col.  So  it  appears  :  however,  that  is  all  very 
satisfactorily  accounted  for. 

Cad.  How  so  ? 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  19 

Col.  Well,  you  must  know,  that  as  we  were 
making  our  tour  of  observation,  and  while  you 
were  bending  so  long  and  curiously  over  McCor- 
mick's  reaper,  I  overheard  a  fragment  of  conversa- 
tion between  a  couple  of  mortals  here.  One  of 
them  was  a  very  pleasant,  well-favored  person  ; 
evidently,  from  his  cheerful  manner,  one  of  the  for- 
tunate stockholders  in  the  enterprise.  Ah,  said  he, 
it  is  high  time  to  close  the  concern.  The  Palace 
has  done  nobly,  and  taught  its  lessons  most  satis- 
factorily. We  have  had  a  perfect  stream  of  visit- 
ors from  all  parts  of  the  Union  ;  but  above  all,  the 
Upper  Ten  of  the  metropolis  (what  he  meant  by 
that  last  expression,  I  know  not,)  have  been  con- 
stant attendants  here,  and  have  given  the  building 
and  its  treasures  a  thorough  and  systematic  exam- 
ination. Our  dear  town  will,  no  doubt,  reap  the 
benefit  of  their  studies  in  ten  thousand  ways.  Yes, 
we  must  bring  our  labors  to  an  end,  forthwith,  and 
transfer  this  fairy  structure  and  its  wonders  to  the 
other  side  of  the  mountains. 

Cad.  Indeed  ?  I  am  delighted  to  find  that  my 
fears  were  so  utterly  groundless.  What  city,  I 
wonder,  is  to  have  the  honor  of  receiving  it  ? 

Col.  Well,  he  went  on  to  say,  that  the  Com- 
mittee were  beset  night  and  day  with  offers,  both 


20  CADMUS — COLUMBUS. 

from  individuals  and  associations,  for  the  purchase 
of  the  building  ;  that  they  would  come  to  a  deci- 
sion this  week,  and  that  the  company  might,  at  all 
events,  depend  upon  a  very  handsome  profit. 

Cad.  Bravo  for  the  nineteenth  !  It  luould 
have  been  a  shame,  indeed,  had  so  charming  a  spot, 
so  crowded  with  monuments  of  genius,  been  aban- 
doned by  the  people.  I  only  wish  that  I  could  re- 
main here  longer,  to  study  and  enjoy  them  ;  but 
I  cannot.  Yes,  brother,  this  interview,  so  satis- 
factory, so  delightful,  must  now  be  brought  to  a 
termination. 

Col.  I  am  right  sorry,  Cadmus.  Must  you  in- 
deed go,  then  ? 

Cad.  I  must.  Do  you  make  much  of  a  stay 
on  the  planet  yourself,  brother  ? 

Col.  A  very  few  days  only.  I  shall  leave  for 
Genoa,  to-morrow. 

Cad.  Ah  ? 

Col.  Yes,  and  after  paying  my  vows  there,  and 
a  flying  visit  to  Pavia,  I  propose  making  a  little 
tour  in  Spain.  I  need  not  tell  you,  Cadmus,  how 
many  points  of  interest  there  are  to  me  in  that 
land. 

Cad.  You'll  be  rapturously  greeted  there, 
brother. 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  21 

Col.  I  shall  keep  incog,  as  much  as  possible. 
There  are  some  descendants  of  dear  old  contempo- 
raries, though,  that  I  am  quite  anxious  to  visit, 
and  see  how  they  are  coming  on  in  the  world  ; 
many  at  Barcelona,  several  at  Saragossa,  Then, 
of  course,  I  must  take  a  peep  at  little  Palos  ;  not 
forgetting  my  ecclesiastical  brethren  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Salamanca.  I  can't  help  thinking  my 
reception  would  be  somewhat  different  there,  now. 

Cad.  Eather  troublous  times  in  Spain,  at  pre- 
sent, they  say.  Her  Majesty,  too,  I  am  told,  is  a 
very  different  person  from  the  Isabella  you  knew. 

Col,  I  am  indeed  grieved  to  hear  such  scanda- 
lous stories  about  her,  and  such  unhappy  accounts 
of  the  country. 

Cad.  They  don't  seem  to  have  profited  much 
by  your  discoveries,  brother.  Am  I  rightly  inform- 
ed, that  out  of  the  innumerable  treasures  they  have 
received  in  past  times,  there  is  not  enough  left, 
even  to  pay  interest  with  ? 

Col.  Even  so  ;  wars  and  revolutions  have  de- 
voured every  penny  of  it,  and  Spain,  that  ought  to 
be  the  ruling  power  on  earth,  this  very  moment 
is  a  bankrupt  among  the  nations,  alike  in  means 
and  character.  But  a  brighter  day  is  dawning,  de- 
pend upon  it. 


22  CADMUS — COLUMBUS. 

Cad.  I  hope  so,  indeed.  It  will  be  a  good 
many  summers,  though,  before  Madrid  has  a  Crys- 
tal Palace  of  her  own.  But,  by  Jove,  Christopher, 
I  must  be  off. 

Col.  By  the  way,  I  must  not  neglect  my  own 
engagements  for  the  day. 

Cad.  Ah,  what  say  your  tablets  ? 

Col.  My  next  appointment  is  on  board  the 
Baltic. 

Cad.  Indeed  ? 

Col.  Yes,  the  Captain  has  sent  me  a  most 
pressing  invitation  to  take  a  look  at  his  vessel.  A 
nice  little  craft,  they  tell  me  ;  not  equal  to  the 
Agenor,  to  be  sure,  either  in  speed  or  accommoda- 
tions ;  still  a  — 

Cad.  Ah,  you're  rather  hard  on  me,  brother. 

Col.  And  then  I  must  run  up  to  Sunny  Side, 
to  pay  my  respects  to  my  biographer,  who  has  put 
me,  I  am  told,  on  a  most  delightful  footing  with 
posterity. 

Cad.  That's  more  than  I  can  say  for  mine, 
confound  him  ! 

Col.  Ah,  what's  this  next  item  ?  Blunt, 
Blunt  ?  Oh  yes,  yes  ;  I  promised  brother  Bow- 
ditch  to  look  in  there,  and  inspect  some  of  his 
charts,  and  to  report  any  recent  improvements  that 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  23 

may  have  been  made  in  terrestrial  navigation.  I 
must  not  fail  to  do  so.  What's  this  ?  Sailors' 
Snug  Harbor  ? 

Cad.  Sailors'  Snug  Harbor  ?  The  grave  you 
mean,  I  suppose. 

Col.  Oh  no,  no  ;  a  noble  institution  for  the  re- 
lief of  disabled  and  veteran  seamen.  Had  you 
nothing  of  the  sort  at  Sidon  ? 

Cad.  Nothing  worth  speaking  of 

Col.  Here  are  one  or  two  other  little  items, 
Cadmus,  but  of  no  special  interest  to  you.  This 
evening,  though,  I  have  a  great  treat  before  me. 

Gad.  What  may  that  be  "? 

Col.  Grisi's  Norma.  A  divine  singer,  brother. 
Your  own  Pindar  might  have  been  proud  to  have 
written  librettos  for  her.  But  come,  now,  why 
can't  you  make  a  day  of  it,  and  then  we'll  start 
off,  bright  and  early  together  in  the  morning. 

Cad.  I  should  dearly  love  to  ;  more  particu- 
larly, after  what  you  have  said  about  the  opera. 
It  is  out  of  the  question,  though. 

Col.  Eeally  ? 

Cad.  Yes,  I  have  positive  and  peremptory  en- 
gagements in  the  sun.  I  wouldn't  disappoint  the 
committee  for  worlds. 

Col.  Some  colonial  business  no  doubt. 


24  CADMUS — COLUMBUS. 

Cad.  Not  at  all.  We  are  to  discuss  the  plans 
for  the  eastern  fagade  of  the  new  observatory. 
Yon  have  heard  about  it,  of  course. 

Col.  Oh  yes  ;  there  are  a  great  many  competi- 
tors, are  there  not  ? 

Cad.  There  are  ;  but,  between  ourselves,  I 
have  little  doubt  that  Michael  Angelo's  design  will 
be  the  one  selected.  Let  me  see,  though.  I  don't 
like  to  leave  the  planet,  I  confess,  without  first 
taking  a  peep  at  the  Baltic.  I've  heard  so  much 
of  her  performances,  to  say  nothing  of  the  comforts 
to  be  had  on  board. 

Col.  The  smartest  salt-water  craft  afloat,  be- 
yond all  peradventure. 

Cad.  Besides,  who  knows  but  what  steam  may 
be  an  obsolete  idea,  before  I  happen  to  be  looking 
in  this  way  again  ? 

Col.  Altogether  likely,  brother. 

Cad.  I  will  go,  by  George.  After  that,  though, 
I  must  positively  leave  you. 

Col.  I'm  sorry  for  it.  Well,  let's  be  off ;  one 
moment,  though,  just  to  give  these  children  a 
chance  to  get  by.  Bless  me,  how  silent  the 
youngsters  are  ! 

Cad.  No  wonder,  brother  ;  those  little  tongues 
never  did  run. 


CADMUS — COLUMBUS.  25 

Col.  True,  true,  poor  tilings  !  They  look  very 
cheerful,  though,  don't  they  ?  So  well-dressed, 
too,  and  well-behaved.  Ah,  there  they  go,  right 
up  to  my  statue.  Bless  me,  how  the  little  fingers 
fly! 

Cad.  Yes,  and  they  seem  to  know  all  about 
you.     There's  fame  for  you,  brother  ! 

Col.  Really,  Cadmus,  this  is  most  touching, 
most  gratifying.     But  come,  andiamo,  andiamo. 

Cad.  Just  one  second. 

Col.  Holloa,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 

Cad.  Merely  to  add  my  mite  to  the  monument 
fund  ;  nothing  more. 

Col.  True,  true  ;  how  could  I  have  neglected 
it  ?  There,  and  never  did  I  part  with  a  jjillared 
dollar  more  cheerfully.  And  now,  for  brother 
Comstock. 

Cad.  After  you,  brother.  [Exeunt. 

2 


SOPHOCLES  — GRAY. 

[SCENE— PARTHENON.] 

Gray.  Thanks,  brother,  for  these  explanations, 
these  glowing  descriptions.  You  have  indeed  re- 
stored this  holy  hill  to  all  its  pristine  splendor. 
But  the  theme  is  too  painful  a  one  for  you,  and  I 
must  not  further  task  your  kindness. 

Soph.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all. 

Gray.  There  were  one  or  two  points  of  in- 
terest, though,  which  you  have  not  touched  upon  ; 
and  above  all,  the  theatre.  Am  I  right  in  sup- 
posing yon  mass  of  rubbish  just  below  us  to  the 
southeast,  all  that  remains  of  the  magnificent  old 
Drury  of  Athens  ? 

Soph.  You  are.  On  that  very  spot  once  stood 
our  proscenium,  and  the  stately  buildings  attached 
to  it.  Those  semi-circular  lines,  of  which  you  may 
here  and  there  detect  faint  traces,  tell  you  of  the 
marble   seats  of  our  spectators.     That  clump  of 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY.  27 

bushes  above  them,  where  you  see  those  goats 
browsing,  occupies  a  part  of  the  very  terrace  that 
once  crowned  our  famous  portico.  Ah,  dear, 
it  seems  but  as  yesterday,  brother,  that  I  was 
walking  on  it ;  now  lost  in  pleasant  fancies,  now 
pausing  to  enjoy  the  superb  picture  at  my  feet,  or 
leaning  against  its  beautiful  balustrade,  and  listen- 
ing, I  confess  it,  with  eager  delight,  to  the  plaudits 
with  which  the  brilliant  throng  beneath  me  were 
wont  to  welcome  my  verses.  Of  all  places  in 
Athens,  to  me  the  most  attractive  ;  fullest  of  stir- 
ring images  and  tender  recollections.  It  was,  more- 
over, a  favorite  resort  of  all  our  choicest  citizens  ; 
it  and  the  charming  little  garden  alongside  of  it, 
with  its  fountains,  and  flower- crowned  vases,  and 
exquisite  statues.  Oh,  the  pleasant  walks  and 
chats  that  I  have  had  there,  with  our  princely 
Pericles,  the  charming  stories  that  I  have  listened 
to  from  Anaxagoras,  that  merriest  of  philosophers  ! 
Aspasia,  too,  wisest,  most  bewitching  of  sirens, 
how  often  have  her  dainty  feet  glided  over  those 
tesselated  pavements, — how  often  has  that  clear, 
ringing  voice  of  hers,  here  poured  forth  Ionian 
melodies  in  the  sweet  summer  moonlight  !  But 
forgive  me,  brother  ;  here  I  am,  as  usual,  lingering 
fondly  over  the  memories  of  the  past,  and  quite 


28  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

neglecting  your  questions.  You  might  have  had 
a  much  more  satisfactory  cicerone,  I  must  say. 

Gray.  Not  so,  brother  ;  go  on,  go  on.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  pleasure  and  a  privilege  to  hear  you  talk ; 
here,  too,  in  the  very  spot  where  your  most  bril- 
liant triumphs  were  won.  And  yet,  can  it  be  so  ? 
Is  not  this  some  wild  dream  ?  Am  I,  indeed, 
hovering  over  the  ruins  of  the  most  sumptuous 
theatre  of  earth  ?  What — yon  vacant,  shattered, 
desolate  place,  can  it  be  that  there  the  most  re- 
fined and  fastidious  of  people  came  thronging  daily 
by  thousands,  to  pass  judgment  on  the  master- 
works  of  art  ?  Do  I,  indeed,  behold  the  spot 
where  Prometheus  sent  up  his  wild  defiance  to  the 
gods,  where  Cassandra  poured  forth  her  mingled 
prophecies  and  lamentations,  where  Electra  clasped 
her  long-lost  brother  to  her  heart,  where  Antigone 
chanted  her  plaintive  farewell,  where  good  king 
CEdipus  rehearsed  his  sorrows,  and  where  at  last, 

"  the  pitying  earth 
Opened  her  peaceful  hosom  to  receive  him  ? " 

And  is  this  Sophocles,  the  master-spirit,  at  whose 
bidding  all  these  noble  creatures  started  into  life, 
and  held  thousands  spellbound  with  their  witch- 
eries ?     Where  are  tliey  all,  those  gazing  crowds. 


SOPHOCLES GRAY.  29 

those  myriad  voices  that  were  wont  to  hail  thy 
presence  with  acclammations,  those  hands  that 
were  so  eager  to  crown  thy  brows  with  Liurels  ? 
7s  nothing  left  of  all  these  glories,  then,  save  yon 
silent  heap  of  ruins  ? 

Soph.  Even  so  ;  and  we,  poor  fluttering  ghosts, 
hovering  over  them,  unrecognized,  unnoticed  ;  no 
other  soul  in  sight  even  ;  in  broad  mid-day,  too, 
and  in  the  very  heart  of  Athens  !  To  this  com- 
plexion has  my  beloved  city  come  at  last ;  this  is 
the  consummation  of  all  the  achievements  of  our 
Pericles,  the  teachings  of  our  Socrates,  the  labors 
of  our  Phidias.  Poor,  plundered,  ruined  Athens  ! 
Throughout  Greece,  too,  the  same  sad  story  ;  art, 
freedom,  glory,  gone,  gone  for  ever;  abandoned  alike 
by  the  Muses  and  the  Graces ;  our  language  muti- 
lated, our  literature  perishing,  our  national  charac- 
ter the  saddest  wreck  of  all  !  The  land  a  mere 
plaything  for  foreign  despots  ;  lorded  over  by  a 
stupid  Bavarian,  who  has  no  soul,  either  for  the 
beautiful  or  the  true  ;  the  little  good  that  ^'5  done 
or  attempted  here,  in  the  way  of  education  or  im- 
provement, not  the  work  of  our  own  citizens,  but 
of  missionaries  from  far  distant  shores. 

Gi'ay.  A  sad  picture,  brother,  but  quite  too 
true  a  one,  I  fear. 


30  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

Soph.  Ay,  and  no  prospect  of  any  thing  bet- 
ter, not  a  solitary  ray  of  hope  in  the  horizon. 
Yes,  brother,  the  work  of  ruin  must  yet  go  on, 
even  to  its  terrible  consummation  ;  this  desolate 
scene  around  us  must  become  yet  more  desolate  ; 
this  proud  temple,  majestic  even  in  ruin,  must  still 
be  exposed  to  the  invader  and  the  plunderer,  till 
not  one  stone  is  left  upon  another  ;  this  holy  hill 
become  at  last  the  same  wild  naked  thing  it  was, 
when  our  Cecrops  first  set  foot  upon  it.  But  I 
must  not  dwell  thus  fondly,  thus  bitterly,  on  these 
sad  themes.  One  thing,  by  the  way,  brother,  grati- 
fied me  just  now,  exceedingly. 

Gray.  Ah,  what  was  that  ? 

Soph.  The  enthusiastic  way  in  which  you  re- 
ferred to  some  of  our  old  Greek  plays.  Had  you 
been  a  contemporary  of  ours,  you  could  hardly  have 
expressed  yourself  more  feelingly. 

Gray.  Would  to  heaven  I  had  been  !  True, 
brother,  I  have  ever  been  a  dear  lover  of  Greek 
poetry,  and  while  in  the  body,  eagerly  devoured 
every  morsel  of  it  in  the  way  of  epic,  elegy,  drama, 
ode,  or  epigram,  that  I  could  lay  my  hands  upon. 
You  yourself  were  my  favorite  author,  while  on 
earth. 

Soph.  Indeed  ? 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY.  31 

Gray.  Yes,  and  to  run  away  from  the  dull 
pedants  and  noisy  students  of  our  University,  and 
betake  myself  to  the  woods,  with  your  ]3lays  in  my 
pocket,  was,  I  assure  you,  one  of  my  greatest  com- 
forts here  below.  Many  a  summer's  morning  have 
I  spent,  my  friend,  by  the  side  of  a  murmuring 
brook  that  I  wot  of,  reading  your  glorious  verses 
to  the  accompaniment  of  its  music. 

Soph.  Why,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so. 

Gray.  There  was  but  one  thought,  indeed,  to 
qualify  my  enjoyment. 

Soph.  And  what  was  that,  brother  ? 

Gray.  I  mean,  that  so  very,  very  few  of  your 
tragedies  have  been  spared  to  us. 

Soph.  Only  seven  ;  so,  I  think,  brother  Aken- 
side  told  me.  Pardon  an  author's  vanity,  when  I 
inquire  if  my  Helen  is  among  the  survivors  ? 

Gray.  Alas,  no. 

Soph.  I'm  sorry  for  that ;  my  master-piece, 
brother,  beyond  all  peradventure.  And  how  with 
my  Theseus  ? 

Gray.  We  have  it  not. 

Soph.  Nor  the  Penelope  ? 

Gray.  Nor  the  Penelope. 

Soph.  Indeed,  you  surprise  me  ;  for  though 
not  an  especial  favorite  of  mine,  it  was  altogether 


32  SOPHOCLES— GRAY. 

the  most  popular  of  my  plays.     It  created  a  great 
eensation  in  the  building  below  us,  I  assure  you. 

Gray.  No  doubt. 

Soph.  Nay  more,  though  it  hardly  becomes  me 
to  tell  it,  it  was,  on  a  certain  occasion,  actually  per- 
formed in  fifty  difierent  theatres  of  Greece  on  the 
same  day. 

Gray.  Indeed  ? 

Soph.  A  compliment  (so  said  brother  Beau- 
mont) without  parallel  in  the  history  of  the  earthly 
drama. 

Gray.  But  what  was  the  occasion  you  speak  of  ? 

Soph.  The  celebration  of  my  eightieth  birth- 
day. This  was  the  piece  selected  in  my  honor  ; 
partly  from  its  merits,  but  more,  I  believe,  because 
of  certain  sentiments  which  I  have  put  in  the 
mouth  of  Penelope,  and  which  are  quite  appro- 
priate to  such  an  anniversary.  And  is  it  possible 
that  no  fragment  even  of  the  favorite  survives  ? 

Gray.  Not  an  iambus,  that  I  wot  of  Well, 
well,  brother,  it  is  only  one  more  instance  of  the 
caprice  of  time,  the  hollowness  of  fame.  We  have 
the  Electra  though,  thank  heaven,  safe  and  sound, 
for  ever  ;•  and  the  Antigone,  and  the  Ajax,  and  the 
Trachiniie,  and  the  Philoctetes,  and  above  all,  both 
parts  of  the  divine  Q^^dipus.     The  Tyrannus  is  the 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 


33 


most  admired  of  the  seven,  I  think,  by  our  modern 

critics. 

Soph.  One  of  my  best,  certainly.  There  were 
not  many  vacant  seats  yonder,  brother,  when  it 
was  first  brought  out.  It  cost  the  treasury  a  pret- 
ty penny,  I  remember,  and  me  a  world  of  anxiety. 
Such  scenery,  such  dresses  had  never  before  been 
seen  in  Athens.  Never,  through  all  eternity,  shall 
I  forget  the  shouts  of  enthusiastic  delight,  with 
which  the  opening  scene  was  greeted.  But  what 
signifies  it  now  to  talk  of  these  things  ?  Ah  dear, 
dear,  dear  ! 

Gray.  By  the  way,  Sophocles,  is  there  any 
foundation  for  that  little  anecdote  that  has  come 
down  to  us  in  connection  with  your  CEdipus  Colo- 

neus  ? 

Soph.  What  anecdote  ? 

Gray.  Why,  they  tell  us  that  some  of  your 
children,  displeased  at  your  longevity,  and  eager  to 
get  possession  of  the  handsome  property  which  you 
had  accumulated,  summoned  you  before  the  judges, 
and  tried  to  make  you  out  a  dotard  ;  and  that 
your  only  reply  to  the  ungrateful  wretches,  was 
the  recitation  of  those  dehcious  verses  in  this  play, 
wherein  you  chant  the  praises  of  this  very  town. 
Is  it  really  so,  brother,  or  not  ? 


34  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

Soph.  Too  true,  Gray,  too  true.  How  could 
you  allude  to  such  a  painful  topic  ? 

Gray.  Yes — but  what  a  glorious  victory  over 
the  rascals  !  To  be  brought  home  in  triumph 
thus  by  the  court,  spectators,  nay,  the  whole  town  ! 

Soph.  It  was  the  proudest,  saddest  day  of  my 
earthly  life.  Let  me  do  my  sons  the  justice  to  say, 
though,  that  they  were  heartily  ashamed  of  their 
conduct,  and  from  that  moment  were  all  respect 
and  devotion,  even  to  the  closing  scene. 

Gray.  Where  were  you  living  then,  brother  ? 
Can  you  point  out  the  spot  from  here  ? 

Soph.  Oh  yes.  Off  to  the  north  here  ;  not  a 
great  way  from  the  theatre.  Do  you  see  yon  huge, 
unsigiitly  mass  of  buildings,  barracks  and  what 
not  ?  They  cover  the  very  place.  I  had  a  most 
charming  house  there,  with  a  perfect  gem  of  a  gar- 
den annexed  to  it  ;  full  of  choice  works  of  art,  and 
among  them  a  very  famous  dial  of  Phidias's  own 
carving.  Eight  opposite  my  porch  was  his  glorious 
statue  of  Solon.  A  most  delightful  neighborhood 
in  my  day.  You  see,  brother,  to  what  base  uses  it 
has  come  at  last.  The  idea  that  such  homes  as 
those  were,  should  be  supplanted  by  yon  vile  look- 
ing structures  !  Oh  how  rejoiced  I  am  that  The- 
mistocles  did  not  accompany  me  !     What  ivould 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY.  35 

he  have  said  at  finding  his  heautifiil  mansion  trans- 
formed into  lodgings  for  the  brutal  soldiers  of  this 
stupid  foreign  king,  this  Otho,  as  they  call  him  ! ' 

Gray.  A  most  lamentable  transformation,  cer- 
tainly. But,  brother,  though  Time  and  Goth  have 
dealt  thus  roughly  with  your  mansion,  surely  they 
must  have  spared  your  monument.  Where  was  it 
erected  ?     I  should  dearly  love  to  see  it,  I  confess. 

Soph.  My  monument  ? 

Gray.  Yes.  You  must  have  heard  of  it ;  that 
magnificent  monument,  with  the  swarm  of  bees 
engraved  upon  it,  and  the  lines  from  Pindar,  and — 

Soph.  True,  true,  I  remember  now.  Euripides 
told  me  all  about  it.  He  did  not  say  where  it  was 
placed,  though  ;  most  likely  in  the  Academy  gar- 
dens ;  possibly  in  the  Lyceum.  But  as  to  search- 
ing for  it,  my  friend,  it  would  be  a  mere  waste  of 
labor.  Wherever  it  was,  depend  upon  it,  it  went 
to  ruin  ages  since,  or,  if  time  spared  it,  it  was  no 
doubt  plundered  or  destroyed  by  these  barbarians 
of  the  north.  Ah  no,  there  are  no  bees  there 
now,  brother,  nor  flowers,  I  fear,  to  invite  them. 
Heaven  knows  !  most  likely  a  family  of  swine  are 
grunting  over  the  spot  this  very  moment. 

Gray.  God  forbid. 

Soph.  And  why  not  after  what  we  have  already 


36  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

seen  to-day  ?  Well,  well,  well,  what  matters  it  after 
all  ?  Cheer  up,  my  friend,  cheer  up.  We  are  taking 
this  matter  altogether  too  much  to  heart.  This  is 
a  sad,  sad  picture,  certainly,  but  what  is  there  new 
or  strange  about  it  ?  Is  there  a  hill  on  earth, 
that  hath  not  overlooked,  or  that  will  not,  in  its 
day,  some  dead  city  or  other  ?  Why  should  Athens 
be  exempted  from  the  common  destiny  ?  It  would 
have  gratified  my  ghostly  pride,  I  confess,  had  I 
found  a  different  scene  here  ;  had  I  found  a  gay 
crowd  in  yonder  theatre,  and  our  dear  Goddess  still 
standing  on  her  pedestal,  and  her  temple  still  per- 
fect and  untarnished,  and  all  the  evidences  of  un- 
diminished power  and  prosj)erity  around  me.  But 
must  not  the  evil  day  have  come  at  last,  and  time 
and  death  have  done  their  dreary  office  ?  Yes, 
yes  ;  such  is  nature's  j^lan,  such  are  the  decrees  of 
Heaven.  So  was  it  in  the  days  of  Deucalion,  so 
must  it  be,  to  the  latest  Olympiad  of  earth. 
Gray.  True,  brother,  true. 

"  From  age  and  death  exempt,  the  Gods  alone 
Immortal  and  unchangeable  remain, 
Whilst  all  things  else  fall  by  the  hand  of  Time, 
The  universal  conqueror :  earth  laments 
Her  fertile  powers  exhausted ;  human  strength 
Is  withered  soon ;  ev'n  faith  and  truth  decay, 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY.  37 

And  from  their  ashes  fraud  and  falsehood  rise ; 
Nor  friendship  long  from  man  to  man  endures, 
Or  realm  to  realm :  to  each,  successive  rise 
Bitter  and  sweet,  and  happiness  and  woe." 

You  remember  the  passage,  perhaps. 

Soph.  I  do  ;  well  recited,  and  well  translated. 

Gray.  The  version  is  not  mine,  but  brother 
Francklin's. 

Soph.  But,  my  dear  friend,  while  you  thus  ap- 
plaud and  quote  my  tragedies,  you  abstain  from  all 
mention  of  your  own.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  you 
have  written  some  admirable  ones. 

Gray.  Not  one,  not  one.  You  have  been  mis- 
informed, I  assure  you. 

Soph.  Indeed  ?  The  author  of  the  Elegy 
ought  to  have  done  something  truly  excellent  in 
tliat  way. 

Gray.  Ah,  you  have  heard  of  the  Elegy,  then  ? 

Soph.  Heard  of  it  ?  I  know  it  by  heart,  and 
in  at  least  twenty  different  languages.  There  are 
few  poems  in  the  Universe  more  popular.  I  am 
no  flatterer,  brother,  but  I  assure  you  that  the  en- 
joyment I  have  derived  from  those  lines,  has  been 
an  abundant  recompense  for  the  trouble  of  learning 
English.  How  appropriate  too,  the  sentiments  to 
a  scene  like  this  !  Quite  as  much  so,  certainly,  as 
those  of  mine,  you  repeated  just  now. 


38  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

"  The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour  : 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave." 

Those  questions,  too,  that  you  put  in  that  other 
stanza,  where  could  they  be  asked  more  pointedly, 
than  here  ? 

"  Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? " 

Ah,  I  should  have  been  right  proud  to  have 
put  those  lines,  brother,  in  any  choral  ode  I  ever 
composed. 

Gray.  Eeally,  Sophocles,  this  approbation  of 
yours  is  most  grateful  to  me. 

Soph.  I  wish,  too,  you  could  have  seen  the  en- 
thusiastic way  in  which  Pindar  recited  another 
verse.    I  think  it  was  the  very  last  time  I  met  him. 

Gray.  Dare  I  ask  which  ? 

Soph. 

"  The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed." 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY.  39 

That  stanza  alone,  he  said,  was  enough  to  im- 
mortaHze  you.  On  the  whole,  however,  he  thought 
the  poem,  with  all  its  beauties,  rather  an  unequal 
one,  and  somewhat  lacking  in  compactness.  He 
preferred  your  Progress  of  Poesy,  and  above  all, 
the  Bard  :  not  strange,  brother,  as  it  is  far  more 
in  his  style. 

Gray.  I  think,  myself,  the  Bard  is  altogether 
the  best  of  my  performances. 

Soph.  But,  my  friend,  I  wonder  you  never  at- 
tempted any  thing  in  the  dramatic  line. 

Gray.  Well,  I  did  make  several  attempts  at 
tragedy  in  the  earlier  part  of  my  earthly  career. 
Vanity  tried  hard  to  persuade  me,  too,  of  their 
merits ;  but,  brother,  when  I  came  to  confront 
them  with  your  Antigone,  or  the  Prometheus  of 
your  predecessor,  the  contrast  was  so  painfully 
striking,  I  was  fain  to  consign  them  to  the  flames 
forthwith. 

Soph.  Ah,  you  are  too  fastidious,  brother,  and 
always  have  been.  'Twas  but  the  other  day  that 
Byron  was  talking  to  me  about  you.  Had  you  read 
less,  and  written  more,  he  said,  it  would  have  been 
far  better  for  your  countrymen. 

Gray.  'Twas  very  kind  in  him,  but  I  don't 
think  so.     On  the  contrary,  I  but  added  my  mite, 


40  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

to  a  treasury  already  full  There  has  never  been 
any  lack  of  good  poetry  in  England.  Next  to  you 
old  Greeks,  brother,  we  defy  the  world  to  niatcli 
us,  either  in  quality  or  abundance.  Ay,  and  since 
my  day,  poets  far,  far  more  illustrious  than  I  ever 
was,  or  will  be. 

Soph.  Inter  uos,  Gray,  what  do  you  think  of 
Byron's  own  tragedies  ? 

Gray.  The  feeblest  things  he  ever  did. 

Soj^h.  His  Semiramis  is  nearly  finished,  he  tells 
me,  and  from  a  passage  or  two,  which  he  re2)eated, 
I  should  say  that  it  was  a  vast  improvement  upon 
his  Sardanapalus. 

Gray.  I  hope  so. 

Soph.  Racine  is  at  work  upon  the  same  subject, 
it  seems.  I  shall  be  curious  to  compare  their  per- 
formances. 

Gray.  Racine  will  give  us  something  very  state- 
ly and  elegant,  no  doubt.  I  am  quite  angry  with 
myself  at  times,  for  not  taking  more  interest  in  his 
plays.     But  what  are  you  smiling  about,  brother  .'* 

Soph.  I  ask  your  pardon  ;  but  just  at  that 
moment,  I  was  thinking  of  a  reply  of  brother 
Wordsworth  to  a  question  I  put  him,  the  other 
day. 

Gray.  Ah,  what  was  that  ? 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY.  41 

Soph.  Well,  I  was  inquiring  of  him,  who  was 
at  present  the  leading  poet  of  England.  Since 
my  departure,  said  he,  I  think  the  claims  of  Al- 
fred Tennyson  to  the  vacant  throne  are,  on  the 
whole,  the  best  founded.  I  then  asked  him  if  he 
could  give  me  a  few  specimens  of  the  Muse  of  his 
probable  successor.  Unfortunately,  not  a  Hue  of 
them  lived  in  his  memory.  He  did  give  me,  how- 
ever, by  way  of  substitute,  a  very,  very  long,  and 
I  must  confess,  a  very  charming  extract  from  his 
own  Excursion, 

Gray.  Just  like  him. 

Soph.  But,  brother,  have  you  heard  any  thing 
about  Tennyson  ? 

Gray.  I  have.  That  most  amiable  of  poets, 
the  newly-arrived  Talfourd,  (by  the  way,  have  you 
seen  him  yet,  Sophocles  ?  You  '11  be  charmed 
with  his  Ion,  I  'm  sure,)  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to 
me  about  him,  and  repeated  a  great  many  stanzas 
of  his,  with  an  enthusiasm,  that  was  quite  delight- 
ful. 

Soph.  Indeed  !     Can  you  recall  any  of  them  ? 

Gray.  Let  me  see.  Most  of  them,  he  said, 
were  taken  from  a  poem  entitled  In  Memoriam, 
and  commemorative  of  a  dear  friend,  of  rare  ge- 
nius, and  who,  in  early  manhood,  exchanged  earth 


42  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

for  heaven.  He  thus  addresses  the  ship  that  brings 
home  his  friend's  remains. 

Fair  ship  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean  plains, 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  -nings,  and  waft  him  o'er! 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn, 
In  vain ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirrored  mast,  and  lead 

Through  prosperous  floods  his  holy  um ! 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  through  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks ! 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  I 

Soph.  Charming,  charming. 

Gray.  There  is  a  fine  description  of  a  calm  day, 
but  I  only  remember  two  or  three  verses.  Let's 
see — ah  yes,  yes — 

Calm  and  stUl  light  on  yon  great  plain. 

That  sweeps,  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers. 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main : 


SOPHOCLES GRAY.  43 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all. 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

Soph.  Bravo,  bravo  !     That  last  verse  is  per- 
fectly delicious. 

Gray.  What  think  you  of  this  stanza  ? 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 

And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush ; 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March ; 

Soph.  Very  musical,  certainly. 
Gray.  Or  this  other  ; 

When  summer's  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe  with  many  roses  sweet 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange. 

Soph.  Better  and  better. 
Gray.  Ah  dear,  I  can't  recall  them.     There 
was  an  epithalamium,  though,  appended  to  the 


44  SOPHOCLES — GRAY. 

poem,  which  brother  T.  recited  most  charmingly. 
I  think  I  remember  a  verse  or  two. 

Sojjh.  Let's  have  them,  my  friend,  let's  have 
them. 

Gray.  This  is  what  he  says  about  the  bride  ; 
the  poet's  own  sister,  by  the  way. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 

That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  with  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes, 

And  then  on  thee ;  they  meet  thy  look. 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O,  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 
He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

Then  follows  a  verse  in  praise  of  the  bridegroom. 
Then  we  have  the  beautiful  scene  in  the  church  ; 

But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near. 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride  ; 
She  fears  not,  or  Avith  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her  wiU  not  fear : 


SOPHOCLES — GRAY.  45 

For  I  that  danced  her  oa  my  knee, 

That  watched  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
'  That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee; 

Now  waiting  to  he  made  a  wife. 

Her  feet,  my  darhng,  on  the  dead ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  hfe 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on, 

The  "  Avilt  thou"  answered  and  again 
The  "  wilt  thou"  asked,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will "  has  made  ye  one. 

Sojah.  Exquisite,  exquisite. 

Gray.  There  are  many  other  verses  equally 
beautiful,  but  I've  lost  them,  I  fear. 

Soph.  My  dear  friend,  I  am  exceedingly  obliged 
to  you.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  more 
charmed.  Brother  Herrick  may  beat  that,  if  he 
can  ;  and  as  for  Tibullus,  he  may  as  well  hang  up 
his  harp  forthwith. 

Gray.  But,  Sophocles,  the  shadows  are  length- 
ening. You  mustn't  forget  our  excursion  to  Mara- 
thon. 

Soph.  True,  brother,  true,  and  it  is  high  time 
that  we  were  off.  Nor  must  you  forget,  in  turn, 
your  part  of  our  agreement. 


46  SOPHOCLES — GRAY, 

Gray.  What,  the  pilgrimage  to  Stratford  ? 
No,  indeed. 

Soph.  Of  all  spots  on  earth  the  one  I  most 
long  to  visit.  Nay,  should  I  ever  dare  look  our 
great  brother  in  the  face  again,  were  I  to  neglect 
such  an  opportunity  ? 

Gray.  We  will  not  leave  the  planet,  brother, 
till  we  have  paid  our  vows  at  his  tomb.  There 
will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  show  me  over  the 
great  battle-ground,  and  still  be  at  Stratford  long 
before  sunset. 

Soph.  How  is  it  about  the  moon,  brother  ? 

Gray.  There  will  be  a  splendid  moon  to-night, 
and  I  confess  there  are  some  beautiful  moonlight 
effects  in  several  nooks  and  comers  of  dear  old 
England,  that  I  should  like  to  show  you.  You 
would  not  object  to  hovering  over  Stoke-Pogeis, 
perhaps,  and  looking  at  a  certain  churchyard  for  a 
moment  ?  There  are  some  yews  there,  worth  a 
poet's  glance. 

Soph.  What,  the  churchyard  that  you  have  im- 
mortalized ?     I  should  love  to  see  it  of  all  thincrs. 

Gray.  Then  there's  York-Minster  and  our 
charming  lakes,  and  above  all,  Melrose.  What 
say  you  ? 

Soph.  Agreed,  agreed ;  and  now  for  Mara- 
thon. [Exeunt. 


SALVATOR  ROSA— BYRON. 

[SCENE— NIAGARA.] 

Byr.  Well,  brother,  we  shall  never  regret  this 
visit,  I'm  sure. 

Sal.  Regret  it  !  I  have  not  spent  two  such 
delightful  and  exciting  days  for  ages. 

Byr.  I  must  plead  guilty  to  a  little  fatigue, 
though  ;  and  am  right  glad  to  repose  awhile  under 
this  pleasant  portico.  Heavens,  what  a  lovely 
evening  ! 

Sal.  We  shall  have  a  superb  lunar  bow,  by 
and  by. 

Byr.  And  now,  Salvator,  let's  compare  notes 
for  a  few  moments.  Do  you  know,  this  is  the  first 
time  I  have  felt  tranquil  enough  to  analyze  my 
sensations.  You,  too,  brother,  have  been  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  wonders  here,  that  I  have  not  pre- 
sumed to  interrupt  your  reveries. 

Sal.  I  have  felt  very  little  like  talking,  I  must 
Bay. 


48  SALVATOR    ROSA BYRON. 

Byr.  But  come  now,  do  tell  us  ;  'wherein  luitli 
this  divine  original  differed  from  the  image  which 
your  fancy  had  formed  of  it  ? 

Sal.  Well,  Byron,  to  say  truth,  I  had  no  very 
distinct  image  of  it  before  me.  Some  casual  re- 
marks of  brother  Cole,  my  own  recollections  of 
Terui,  and  your  own  spirited  description  of  that 
cataract,  were  all  floating  together,  confusedly,  in 
my  mind,  at  the  very  moment  when  the  falls  first 
came  in  sight.  On  the  whole,  I  should  say,  that 
I  have  found  more  of  the  beautiful,  and  less  of  the 
terrible  here  than  I  had  anticipated.  The  banks 
of  the  river  are  neither  so  wild,  nor  lofty,  as  my 
imagination  had  painted  them.  Nay,  for  the  first 
moment  or  two,  I  must  confess  to  some  little  feel- 
ing of  disappointment.  I  was  not  so  awe-struck, 
so  overwhelmed  by  the  majesty  of  the  scene,  as  I 
expected  to  be,  'Twas  but  for  a  moment,  how- 
ever. Every  additional  look,  every  new  point  of 
view  from  which  we  have  gazed  on  the  spectacle, 
has  revealed  so  many  charming  effects  of  color  and 
grouping,  such  varied  and  exquisitely  graceful 
movements,  to  say  nothing  of  the  magnificent 
combinations  of  sound,  that  I  am  utterly  without 
words  to  express  my  delight.  But  what  say  you, 
brother  ? 


SALVATOR    ROSA BYRON.  49 

Byr.  You  have  quite  anticipated  my  own  im- 
pressions ;  with  this  exception,  however ;  the  scen- 
ery in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  falls,  I 
have  found  far  more  wild  and  striking  than  I  had 
looked  for, 

Sal.  Ah  ! 

Byr.  Yes.  I  had  been  told,  indeed,  that  the 
hand  of  improvement  had  been  most  irreverently 
employed  here  ;  that  the  greed  of  gain  had  ab- 
stracted greatly  from  the  volume  of  the  waters ; 
that  the  sanctity  of  the  forest  had  been  violated  ; 
and  that  all  sorts  of  uncouth  structures  defaced 
the  most  charming  points  of  the  picture.  There 
certainly  is  some  foundation  for  this  last  charge  ; 
but  on  the  whole,  I  have  been  most  agreeably  sur- 
prised to  find  Grod's  work  so  little  desecrated. 

Sal.  Do  you  know  that  that  has  been  the  only 
painful  feeling  I  have  had  during  our  visit  here  ? 

Byr.  How's  that  ? 

Sal.  I  mean  the  apparent  want  of  appreciation 
on  the  part  of  those  to  whose  keejjing  this  wonder 
of  nature  has  been  intrusted,  both  of  its  transcen- 
dent beauties,  and  of  the  glorious  lessons  it  was 
placed  here  to  teach  ;  the  utter  want  of  taste,  too, 
displayed  in  the  character  of  the  buildings  around 
it.  I  do  not  refer  so  much  to  the  hotels,  curiosity- 
3 


50  SALVATOR    ROSA — BYRON. 

shops  and  churches  of  the  village  (though  none  of 
them  appeal  agreeably  to  my  eye),  as  to  the  struc- 
tures more  immediately  connected  with  the  cata- 
ract itself ;  the  bridges,  towers,  staircases,  pa- 
vilions, observatories  and  what  not.  More  unsight- 
ly and  unmeaning  erections  I  never  beheld  ;  so  far 
from  contributing  to  the  general  eifect  of  the  pic- 
ture, they  are  so  many  downright  blemishes  upon  it. 

Byr.  Too  true,  that. 

Sal.  The  names,  too,  that  have  been  given  to 
the  prominent  objects  here,  how  vulgar,  how  inex- 
pressive !  Goat  Island,  forsooth  !  Could  they 
find  nothing  better  for  such  a  paradise  of  a  spot  ? 
Table  Bock  !  How  ilat,  how  utterly  unsuggestive 
of  the  matchless  spectacle  that  it  commands  ! 
Horse-shoe  Fall !  What  a  barren  brain  and  dead 
fancy  are  implied  in  such  a  christening  !  Terra- 
pin Bocks,  too  ! 

Byr.  That  is  a  poetical  appellation,  certainly. 

Sal.  Could  any  thing  be  worse,  indeed,  unless 
it  were  that  eye-sore  of  a  tower  that  they  have 
erected  upon  them  ?  Miserable  object ;  in  form, 
color,  proportions,  so  entirely  out  of  keeping  with 
the  scene  !  And  this  in  the  very  heart  of  the  pic- 
ture, the  very  holy  of  holies  !  I  have  no  patience 
with  such  outrages  on  propriety. 


SALVATOR    ROSA — BYRON.  51 

Byr.  You  are  severe,  brother,  but  quite  too 
just,  I  fear. 

Sal.  And  then,  the  shameful  way  in  which, 
not  merely  the  walls  and  benches,  but  the  trees 
and  rocks  themselves  have  been  disfigured  ;  yes, 
scarcely  a  single  tree  have  I  seen  on  yon  lovely 
island,  that  was  not  mutilated  by  the  name  or  ini- 
tials of  some  ignoble  Jones  or  Smith. 

Byr.  Abominable,  abominable. 

Sal.  Such  an  utter  want  of  reverence  and  sen- 
sibility !  And  then  the  criticisms  that  I  could 
not  help  overhearing  !  The  idle  epithets  of  gap- 
ing clowns  ;  the  affected  raptures  of  fops  and 
flirts  ;  the  nervous  exclamations  of  nurses,  encum- 
bered with  babies,  and  lajD-dogs ;  (the  idea  of 
bringing  poodles  and  babies  to  such  a  spot  !)  there 
was  one  wretch  especially,  whom  I  shall  never  for- 
get, a  long,  lank,  flinty-faced  fellow,  strutting 
about  under  a  broad  Panama  hat,  with  a  huge 
hickory  stick  in  his  hand,  and  a  most  remorseless 
tobacco-chewer,  withal ;  the  way  in  which  he  took 
up  his  station  on  Table  Eock,  and  began  to  lay 
down  the  law  on  town-lots  and  water-privileges  ; 
the  profane  wish  he  expressed  that  the  Niagara 
would,  ere  long,  make  itself  as  useful  to  the  com- 
munity  as  the    Genesee   (I    think  that  was  the 


52  SALVATOR    ROSA — BYRON. 

name)  had  already  been  ;  the  cool  atrocity  with 
which  he  then  proceeded  to  calculate  the  value  of 
the  cataract  in  horse-power  ;  all  this,  brother,  was 
to  me  so  inexpressibly  disgusting,  that  in  my 
wrath,  I  could  hardly  refrain  from  hurling  the  sac- 
rilegious villain  into  the  gulf  beneath  us. 

Byr.  Ah,  Salvator,  you  are  the  same  sensitive, 
fastidious,  irritable  creature  as  ever,  I  see. 

Sal.  But  was  it  not  most  scandalous  ?  And 
to  think,  that  these  same  ideas  have  been  acted 
upon  here  ;  that  Niagara  has  already  begun  to  be 
a  drudge  in  the  service  of  mammon  !  To  think 
that  this  holy  spot  is  already  profaned  by  saw- 
mills, and  paper-mills,  and  sash-factories  !  Ob- 
jects, just  as  impertinent  and  unbecoming  here,  as 
the  stall  of  a  coster-monger  would  be  right  under 
the  baldacchino  of  St.  Peters  ! 
Byr.  Even  so. 

Sal.  Why  are  such  things  permitted  ?  Why 
does  not  the  government  take  this  treasure  into  its 
own  keeping  ?  Why  does  it  not  give  this  price- 
less jewel  an  appropriate  setting  ?  A  spot  like 
this,  that  must,  through  all  time,  be  the  resort  of 
the  worshippers  of  the  grand  and  beautiful,  from 
all  lands  ;  an  inexhaustible  study  for  the  poet,  and 
the  painter.  Oh,  what  a  field  for  the  hand  of 
taste  and  munificence  ! 


SALVATOR   ROSA BYRON.  53 

Byr.  The  government  hardly  takes  this  view 
of  the  subject,  I  fear.  Your  proposition  would 
scarcely  be  listened  to,  in  either  House  of  Con- 
gress ;  no,  not  though  the  memorial  in  its  behalf 
were  composed  by  brother  Milton  himself,  and  ad- 
vocated by  brother  Clay.  If  I  have  not  been  mis- 
informed, any,  the  slightest  expenditure  of  the  pub- 
lic treasures,  on  mere  matters  of  Art,  or  Sentiment, 
is  forthwith  voted  down  at  Washington,  as  waste- 
ful, anti-democratic,  and  unconstitutional. 

Sal.  Well,  I  am  more  vexed  than  surprised, 
brother,  to  hear  you  say  so.  Precious  economy, 
truly  !  Precious  democracy,  that  would  thus  over- 
look the  beauty,  and  the  moral,  nay,  the  absolute 
utility  to  the  nation  (in  all  the  higher  senses  of 
that  term),  of  a  scene  like  this  ;  this,  the  rarest 
page  in  God's  great  book  !  Not  so  would  have 
reasoned  or  acted,  the  rulers  of  Egypt,  nor  the 
statesmen  of  Greece,  nor  the  Conscript  Fathers  of 
Rome,  nor  even  the  Viceroys  of  my  own  unhappy 
Naples.  They  would  not  have  tolerated  such  des- 
ecrations here  ;  they  would  not  have  abandoned 
such  a  spot  to  the  cupidity  of  proprietors,  or  to  the 
wanton  outrages  of  Vandal  visitors. 

Byr.  You  are  warm,  brother. 

Sal.  I  am  indignant,  I  confess,  to  see  a  great 


54  SALVATOR    ROSA — BYRON. 

and  powerful  nation  taking  so  little  apparent 
pride  or  interest  in  such  a  gift  from  Heaven. 

Bijr.  And  5'ou  really  think  that  these  other 
governments  of  which  you  speak,  would  have  valued 
it  more  highly,  and  adorned  it  more  tastefully,  and 
watched  over  it  more  reverently,  than  the  good 
people  of  America  ever  will  ? 

Sal.  Well,  perhaps  I  have  expressed  myself 
rather  too  strongly  ;  I  certainly  intended  no  dis- 
respect to  our  earthly  friends  here.  I  must  be  can- 
did, however.  What  little  they  have  done  here, 
as  I  said  before,  seems  to  me,  to  have  been  done  in 
wretched  taste,  and  an  unw^orthy  spirit.  Judging 
by  the  past,  I  cannot  but  foresee  (so  far,  at  least, 
as  the  hand  of  man  can  mar  such  a  creation  as 
this)  a  most  unworthy  future  for  our  poor  cataract ; 
its  waters  turned  aside  from  their  glorious  mission, 
to  saw  logs,  forsooth,  and  cut  nails,  and  grind 
corn  ;  its  banks  defaced  by  unsightly  mills,  and 
workshops  ;  its  solitude  disturbed  by  screaming 
engines,  and  clattering  factories,  precious  substi- 
tutes for  these  delicious  murmurs,  these  majestic 
harmonies  ;  its  islands  shorn  of  their  woods  ;  its 
splendid  robes  of  white  and  green,  all  rent  and  fa- 
ded ;  the  light  of  its  jewels  extinguished  for  ever  ; 
its  rainbows  all  melted  away  ;  nought  left  indeed  to 


SALVATOR    ROSA BYRON.  55 

tell  the  tale  of  its  glories,  save  a  few  scanty,  mur- 
muring brooklets,  creeping  forlorn  over  its  desolate 
rocks.  You  smile,  brother,  I  see,  at  the  extrava- 
gance of  the  picture  ;  and  yet,  just  such  a  wreck 
as  this  would  our  poor  Niagara  become,  if  this  ac- 
cursed spirit  of  utility  could  work  its  will  upon  it. 

Byr.  A  dismal  consummation,  certainly ! 
Meanwhile,  yon  Rapids  dance  and  sparkle  in  the 
moonlight,  as  if  they  had  no  faith  in  your  prophecy. 
But,  Salvator,  you  have  not  answered  my  question. 
Candidly,  now,  would  this  same  treasure,  as  you 
call  it,  have  fared  any  better  in  the  keeping  of 
those  old  nations  you  mentioned  ?  Would  they 
have  put  it  to  any  loftier  uses,  or  read  in  it  any 
more  profound  lessons,  than  our  Yankee  brethren 
are  likely  to  do  .^^     I  doubt  it,  myself. 

Sal.  I  do  not.  But,  come,  let's  look  into  this 
matter  a  moment.  These  are  very  fanciful  spec- 
ulations, to  be  sure,  and  yet  they  may  not  be  al- 
together profitless.  Imagine,  then,  our  Niagara, 
if  you  will,  translated  to  old  Egypt  ;  no  longer  lift- 
ing up  its  voice  in  the  wilderness,  unheard  through 
the  long  ages,  save  by  wild  men  and  beasts,  but 
chanting  its  solemn  music  on  the  Nile,  in  the  heart 
of  that  mighty  nation,  and  in  the  days  of  the  mag- 
nificent  Sesostris.     Can  you  doubt,  brother,  that 


56  SALVATOR    ROSA BYRON. 

that  music  would  have  been  more  deeply  enjoyed, 
more  reverently  listened  to,  than  it  now  is  ?  that 
this  whole  scene,  with  all  its  surroundings  and  as- 
sociations, man's  part  in  it  as  well  as  God's,  would 
have  been  more  grand,  and  beautiful,  and  sugges- 
tive of  lofty  thoughts,  and  adorned  with  appropri- 
ate images,  than  it  ever  can  be  here  ?  Think  of 
the  palaces,  the  temples,  the  sacred  groves,  the 
rites,  and  pageants,  that  must  have  entered  into 
the  picture,  under  such  a  monarch,  and  such  a 
priesthood.  Can  there  be  any  doubt,  Byron,  which 
of  the  two  scenes  would  have  best  repaid  a  travel- 
ler's pilgrimage,  most  kindled  a  poet's  ardor  ?  I 
speak,  of  course,  brother,  not  as  a  Christian  spirit, 
but  as  an  artist,  and  searcher  after  the  beautiful. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Byr.  In  that  point  of  view,  I  agree  with  you, 
certainly. 

Sal.  Or  remove  our  Niagara,  if  you  will,  to 
Greece  ;  ay,  within  a  day's  journey  of  old  Athens, 
and  in  the  golden  age  of  Pericles.  Fancy  this  spot, 
if  you  can,  populous  with  all  those  glorious  divini- 
ties, frequented  by  those  brilliant  creatures,  embel- 
lished by  those  divine  artists.  What  exquisite 
temples,  adorning  all  the  prominent  j^oints  of  the 
picture  !     What  graceful,  statue-crowned  bridges  ! 


SALVATOR  ROSA— BYRON.  57 

What  groups  assembled  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  1 
What  processions  of  beautiful  youths,  and  white- 
robed  maidens  1  Magnificent  as  this  spectacle  now 
is,  brother,  would  it  not  have  been  far^  far  more  so, 
when  enlivened  by  objects,  figures,  costumes,  asso 
ciations,  like  these  I 

Byr.  Oh  that  it  had  been  so  I  Oh  that  Niag-^ 
ara  had  sung  its  glorious  song,  in  old  Greece,  from 
the  beginning  1  What  a  figure  it  would  have 
made  in  human  history,  and  literature  1  How 
charmingly  Herodotus  would  have  described  it  for 
us  !  How  it  would  have  resounded  in  the  verse  of 
Homer  !  How  these  Eapids  would  have  gushed 
and  sparkled  in  the  divine  odes  of  Pindar  !  Here 
Plato  might  have  mused,  and  woven  his  stately 
sentences  ;  from  these  waters  might  Socrates  have 
drawn  many  a  cunning  metaphor,  wherewith  to 
instruct  his  versatile  countrymen.  Think  of  So- 
phocles, too,  wandering  in  the  lovely  groves  of  yon 
island,  meditating  the  sorrows  of  Electra,  or  chant- 
ing the  sublime  death-song  of  (Edipus  ;  or  of  Per- 
icles himself,  forgetting  the  cares  of  state,  in  a 
dehcious  moonlight  walk  there,  with  his  brilliant 
Aspasia,  Ah  dear,  as  you  say,  brother,  there  is  no 
such  company,  I  fear,  no  such  future  in  store  for 
our  poor  river-god. 

3* 


58  SALVATOR   ROSA— BYtlON. 

Sal.  Who  knows,  indeed,  how  far  the  faith, 
art,  polity,  destiny  of  Greece,  might  have  been 
modified  by  such  a  presence  among  them  ?  Would 
it  not  have  been  the  central  point  of  all  their  su- 
perstitions, the  rallying  point  of  their  patriotism  ? 
Would  not  the  Delphic  oracle  have  been  consulted 
in  those  very  groves,  and  the  Amphictyons  have 
held  their  conferences,  within  hearing  of  this  migh- 
ty monitor  ? 

Byr.  It  would  have  been,  unquestionably,  the 
most  sacred  and  memorable  spot,  in  all  ancient 
history. 

Sal.  Or  fancy  our  cataract,  thundering  among 
the  Alban  hills,  almost  within  sight  of  the  Con- 
script Fathers. 

B7jr.  Heavens,  what  a  river  the  Tiber  would 
then  have  been  !  What  an  impulse  would  have 
been  given  to  Roman  commerce  !  How  many 
more,  and  more  magnificent  aqueducts  they  would 
have  had,  and  fountains,  a  hundred  to  one  !  What 
docks,  and  bridges,  too,  putting  Father  Thames 
quite  to  the  blush. 

Sal.  True,  but  we  are  not  speaking  now,  broth- 
er, as  economists  and  statesmen,  but  in  our  appro- 
priate characters,  as  poets,  and  j)ainters.  In  that 
point  of  view,  what  a  glorious  part  Niagara  would 


SALVATOR    ROSA BYRON.  59 

have  played  in  Roman  annals  !  Knowing,  as  we 
do,  the  exquisite  taste,  with  which  they  adorned 
Tivoli,  can  we  imagine  the  splendid  setting  they 
wonld  have  given  this  jewel  ?  Can  we  imagine 
the  triumphal  pomp,  the  gorgeous  ceremonies  that 
would,  at  times,  have  illuminated  the  picture  ? 

Byr.  Brilliant,  most  brilliant  !  Ah  dear,  how 
I  should  have  loved  to  have  been  ciceroned  through 
such  a  spot,  by  brother  Tully  !  How  I  should 
have  enjoyed  brother  Numa's  surprise  at  the 
changes  in  it,  since  his  time  !  What  a  perfect 
daguerreotype,  by  the  way,  brother  Livy  would 
have  given  us  of  it,  in  his  pictured  page,  and  what 
a  magniloquent  description,  brother  Curtius  !  Hor- 
ace himself  would  have  drawn  fresh  inspiration 
from  such  a  neighborhood,  and  Virgil  would  have 
added  another  book  to  the  J^]neid,  in  its  honor. 
Oh,  what  a  place  Hadrian  would  have  made  of  it, 
with  his  grand  conceptions,  and  inexhaustible 
purse  !  Yes,  Salvator,  you  are  right  ;  so  far  as 
sentiment  and  art  are  concerned,  Niagara  might 
have  fallen  into  worthier  hands.  And  yet,  I  can- 
not bear  to  think  so.  I  cannot  but  hope  that  the 
eyes  of  this  nation  will  yet  be  opened,  and  that 
they  will  be  led  to  take  a  more  generous  and  poet- 
ical view  of  our  Cataract,  and  that  the  Grovernment 


60  SALVATOK   ROSA — BYRON. 

will  interfere  to  rescue  it  from  the  ignominious  doom, 
•which  you  seem  to  anticipate. 

Sal.  God  grant  it  !  May  no  ray  of  its  splen- 
dors ever  be  taken  from  it.  May  Art  ever  minis- 
ter reverently  here,  unto  Beauty  !  Above  all, 
brother,  may  this  mighty  voice  ever  be  heard  in  a 
land  of  Peace  and  Freedom  !  May  no  drop  of  civil 
blood  ever  stain  these  majestic  waters,  no  din  of 
battle  ever  be  heard  in  this  holy  presence  !  Oh, 
may  Niagara  be  set  apart,  through  all  time,  as  the 
chosen  place  of  pilgrimage,  alike  of  the  lover  and 
the  student,  the  patriot  and  the  philosopher  ! 

Byr.  Amen,  Amen  !  But  with  your  leave, 
Salvator,  dropping  our  fancies  of  what  this  spot 
might  have  been,  in  other  climes  and  ages,  and  our 
conjectures  as  to  its  future  destiny,  let  us  look  at 
it,  one  little  moment  more,  as  we  have  seen  it,  this 
blessed  day.  And  here,  brother,  I  must  say,  I 
think  your  criticism  was  quite  too  sweeping  a  one, 
and  that  there  are  objects  around  us  of  man's  mak- 
ing, by  no  means  the  eye-sores,  you  have  represent- 
ed them.  The  Suspension  Bridge,  for  instance  ; 
I  look  upon  that  as  a  most  graceful  and  appropri- 
ate image  here. 

Sal.  So  do  I,  so  do  I ;  most  beautiful  and  sug- 
gestive.    The  buildings  at  either  end  of  it,  might 


SALVATOR   ROSA — BYRON.  61 

perhaps  have  been  in  a  purer  style  of  art ;  but  the 
bridge  itself  is  a  perfect  wonder, 

Byi\  Most  felicitous,  it  seems  to  me,  alike  in 
conception,  execution,  and  position.  Here  we  have 
the  great  marvel  of  Nature,  face  to  face  with  one 
of  the  grandest  triumphs  of  genius  over  difiiculty. 

Sal.  I  am  not  insensible  of  its  merits,  I  assure 
you  ;  nor  shall  I  soon  forget  the  thrill  of  terror  and 
delight  with  which  I  beheld  that  huge  train  of 
cars  pass  over  it  this  morning  ;  to  say  nothing  of 
the  noble  career  it  has  before  it,  both  as  an  instru- 
ment of  commerce,  and  a  bond  of  union  between 
two  great  nations.  With  that  single  exception, 
however,  I  must  still  protest  against  the  so-called 
improvements  here  as  unworthy  of,  and  out  of 
keeping  with  the  genius  of  the  place. 

Byr.  Well,  well,  after  all  said,  brother,  I  look 
upon  it  as  the  most  fascinating  spot  upon  earth, 
I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  our  terrestrial  scenery 
in  my  little  day. 

Sal.  {Aside.)  Ay,  and  have  described  it  most 
divinely. 

Byr.  The  sublime  solitudes  of  Switzerland,  the 
august  landscapes  of  renowned,  romantic  Spain, 
the  wonders  of  Cintra,  the  delicious  pictures  of 
your  own  country,  Greece,  Albania,  Asia  Minor^ 


62  SALVATOR   ROSA — BYRON. 

and  the  lovely  isles  that  crown  the  ^Egean  deep  ; 
but  of  all  the  scenes  that  haunt  the  chambers  of 
my  memory,  I  find  nothing  on  the  whole,  so 
charming  as  this  same  Goat  Island,  Do  you  not 
agree  with  me  ? 

Sal.  I  do,  indeed.  My  knowledge,  at  least  of 
earthly  landscapes,  is  limited  compared  with  yours. 
We  had  neither  the  long  purses,  nor  the  facilities 
for  travelling,  in  the  seventeenth  centuiy,  that  you 
of  the  nineteenth,  have  been  favored  with.  Switz- 
erland might  as  well  have  been  in  another  planet, 
so  far  as  we  poor  Italians  were  concerned.  I  did 
study,  however,  pretty  faithfully,  the  fair  face  of 
my  unhappy  Italy,  from  the  wild  fastnesses  of  the 
Abruzzi,  to  the  amenities  of  the  Val  D'Arno  ;  and 
I  must  confess,  with  you,  that  I  have  found  noth- 
ing there,  so  bewitching  as  this  very  island  ;  so  full 
of  piquant  contrasts,  so  suggestive  of  pleasant  fan- 
cies ;  no,  nothing  comparable  to  it,  along  the  siren- 
haunted  coasts  of  Campania,  or  the  storied  shores 
of  Magna  Griucia,  or  in  Sicily  itself 

Byr.  So  placid,  too,  so  Arcadia-like,  with  its 
tinkling  cow-bells,  and  singing  birds,  and  yet  set 
in  such  a  frame  of  terrors  !  the  very  picture,  as 
brother  Wordsworth  has  it,  "  of  central  peace,  sub- 
sisting at  the  heart  of  endless  agitation  !" 


SALVATOR    ROSA — BYRON.  63 

Sal.  But,  above  all,  the  infinitely  varied  play 
of  the  waters  around  it  !  What  an  invaluable  se- 
ries of  studies  for  the  artist  !  Now  c[uiet  as  a  mill- 
pond  ;  now  gliding  gently  along,  caressing  the 
wild-flowers  on  their  margin,  or  playing  with  tlie 
branches  of  the  pines  ;  now  broken  into  innumer- 
able ripples  ;  now  vexed  into  foam  ;  now  dashed 
back  on  themselves  by  the  opposing  rocks,  and 
shattered  into  myriad  diamonds  ;  now  more  tran- 
quil again,  but  hurrying  with  treacherous  swiftness, 
to  their  fate  ;  every  step  we  take  in  the  circuit, 
some  new  effect,  some  new  combination  of  sounds, 
and  of  movements.  And  now  the  glorious  Kapids 
appear  ;  a  gallant  company,  filling  the  vast  stream 
with  their  tumult  ;  how  they  rush,  and  leap,  and 
sparkle,  and  toss  the  foam  from  their  crests,  and 
hasten  along,  as  if  to  some  great  festival  !  Wild- 
er and  wilder  grows  the  dance,  more  and  more 
frenzied  the  music,  till  we  at  last  behold  the  mag- 
nificent consummation.  Ah,  who  shall  describe 
that  scene  ? 

The  roar  of  waters !  from  the  headlong  height 
Niagara  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice ; 
The  fall  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light, 
The  flashing  mass  foams,  shaking  the  ahyss ; 
The  heU  of  waters  I  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 


64  SALVADOR    ROSA — BYRON. 

And  boil  in  endless  torture  ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 
Making  it  all  one  emefald :  — - 

helj)  me  out,  brother,  help  me  out  with  this  superb 
description  of  yours  ; 

Byf.  Bravo,  bravo  !  admirably  recited, 
Sal.  The  only  description  I  have  seen,  in  any 
language,  that  begins  to  do  justice  to  the  divine 
original.  Ah,  I  wish  I  could  write  such  poetry. 
Who  would  believe,  Byron,  that  you  intended  these 
glorious  lines  for  the  insignificant  Terni,  that  mere 
leaf  from  this  mighty  volume  ?  Here,  here  they 
belong,  and  with  this  spot  shall  they  for  ever  after 
be  identified,  in  my  memory. 

Byr.  Keally,  Salvator,  your  criticism  is  most 
gratifying.  Well,  well,  brother,  charmed  as  we 
have  been  here,  we  must  soon  turn  our  backs  upon 
these  splendors.  But,  perhaj^s  I  may  prevail  upon 
you  to  stay  one  day  more,  and  try  your  magical 
pencil  on  some  of  — 


SALVATOR    ROSA BYRON.  65 

Sal.  Impossible,  my  dear  boy,  impossible  ;  I 
have  engagements,  in  several  stars,  that  I  have 
neglected  quite  too  long,  already,  I  must  positive- 
ly leave  earth,  by  cock-crow.  Besides,  I  would  not 
be  guilty  of  such  presumption.  The  idea  of  trans- 
ferring these  lights,  this  music,  and  motion,  to  can- 
vas !     Preposterous. 

Byr.  And  yet,  you  seemed  to  admire  greatly, 
that  picture  in  the  Ladies'  Parlor  here, 

Sal.  I  was  very  much  struck  with  it,  I  confess  ; 
a  bold,  free  pencil,  brother.  The  emerald  sheet  is 
admirably  rendered,  and  the  mist  ;  the  rocks,  too, 
stand  out  grandly  from  the  canvas.  I  forget  the 
artist's  name,  by  the  way. 

Byr.  Cropsey,  Cropsey. 

Sal.  Ah,  yes,  yes  ;  a  dashing  fellow.  He  has 
a  brilliant  future  before  him,  I  doubt  not.  At  the 
same  time,  I  am  sorry  he  selected  such  a  subject  ; 
one  quite  beyond  the  reach  of  our,  or  any  art. 
You  have  come  the  nearest  to  it,  brother,  as  I  said 
just  now,  in  those  vivid  verses  of  yours  ;  but  how 
utterly  inadequate  are  alike  pen,  pencil,  lyre,  to 
interpret  aright  this  mighty  presence  ! 

Byr.  True,  true,  I  am  right  sorry,  though, 
Salvator,  that  you  cannot  remain  longer  here,  to 
worship  with  me.     I  shall  certainly  stay  the  week 


66  SALVATOR   ROSA — BYRON. 

out  myself.  Are  your  engagements  really  so  press- 
ing, and  may  I  venture  to  inquire  into  their  na- 
ture ? 

Sal.  Certainly.  In  the  first  place,  then,  you 
must  know  that  I  am  hard  at  work,  illustrating 
some  new  stories,  by  brother  Boccaccio. 

Bijr.  Ah.? 

Sal.  Yes  ;  very  different  though,  in  their  char- 
acter, I  need  not  tell  you,  from  his  terrestrial  ones. 

J5yr.  I  should  hope  so. 

Sal.  While  purged  of  all  their  grossness,  they 
have  to  the  full,  as  much  humor,  and  are  infinitely 
more  brilliant  in  the  descriptive  passages  :  a  labor 
of  love,  to  me,  I  assure  you.  I  am  hkewise  busy 
on  designs  for  brother  Dante's  new  epic  ;  I  should 
say  rather,  his  old  epic,  reconstructed  on  new  prin- 
ciples, and  in  accordance  with  his  enlarged  experi- 
ence, and  loftier  views  of  life. 

Byr.  Indeed  ?  Do  you  know,  he  recited  some 
passages  from  it  to  me,  recently  ?  I  was  quite 
taken  off  my  feet  by  them, 

Sal.  A  sublime  work  ;  as  fiir  before  its  earthly 
predecessor,  as  that  is  before  all  other  Italian  poems. 
To  be  candid,  I  rather  shrunk  from  the  task  of 
illustrating  it,  and  intimated  that  it  was  more  in 


SALVATOR    KOSA — BYRON.  67 

brother  Angelo's  line  ;  but  the  bard  insisted,  and 
I  had  to  submit.  In  addition  to  these  employ- 
ments, I  have  a  special  engagement,  a  few  hours 
hence,  with  brother  Shakspeare. 

Byr.  Ah,  what  may  that  be  ? 

Sal.  You  must  know,  that  he  has  done  me  the 
honor  to  ask  me  to  paint  some  scenery  for  a  play, 
shortly  to  be  produced  at  his  charming  little  pri- 
vate theatre,  at  the  Villa  Augustina. 

Byr.  The  deuce  he  has  !  What,  a  play  of  his 
own  ? 

Sal.  Yes,  the  last  coinage  of  his  godlike  brain  ; 
a  miracle  of  wit  and  fancy. 

Byr.  What  does  he  call  it  ?  What  is  the 
story  ?     I  am  all  curiosity,  brother. 

Sal.  Ah,  that's  a  secret.  Don't  be  uneasy, 
though.  The  last  time  I  was  there,  he  showed  me 
a  list  of  invited  guests,  who  are  to  grace  the  open- 
ing night.  A  brilliant  galaxy,  I  assure  you.  You 
are  down  among  the  first.  You'll  know  all  about 
it  now,  in  a  few  days. 

Byr.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it. 

Sal.  But  come,  Byron,  the  moon  is  well  up, 
and  Iris,  gentle  goddess,  is  waiting  for  us. 

Byr.  True,  true  ;  we  were  sadly  disappointed 
last  night. 


68  SALVATOR   ROSA — BYRON, 

Sal.  You  must  be  pretty  well  refreshed  by 
this  time. 

Byr.  Perfectly  so,  my  dear  boy,  and  at  your 
service. 

Sal.  Dunque,  andiamo.  [Exeunt^ 


HOKTENSIUS— BECKFOKD. 

[SCENE— ST.  PETEES.] 

Beck.  Is  it  possible  ?  Your  first  visit  here, 
Hortensius  ? 

Hor.  My  very  first,  I  assure  you. 

Beck.  You  amaze  me.  Pray,  what  part  of 
space  have  you  been  slumbering  in,  for  the  last 
twenty  centuries,  not  to  have  been  here  before  ? 

Hor.  Slumbering,  say  you.^  A  pretty  ques- 
tion to  ask  of  one  of  the  busiest  ghosts  that  ever 
occupied  a  body  ! 

Beck.  You  needn't  take  me  up  so  warmly, 
though.     I  meant  no  harm,  my  friend. 

Hor.  I  am  not  angry,  my  dear  fellow.  It  cer- 
tainly is  strange  that  a  Roman  ghost  should  have 
seen  so  little  of  his  native  city,  since  death.  Such 
are  the  facts,  nevertheless.  The  truth  is,  1  have 
been  so  crowded  with  professional  cares  and  duties, 
in  other  planets,  that  my  poor  birth-star  has  been 


VO  HOETENSIUS — BECKFORD, 

all  but  forgotten.  Will  you  believe  me,  Beckford, 
when  I  tell  you  that,  with  the  single  exception  of 
a  recent  flying  visit  to  the  Palatine  (and  a  most 
unhappy  one  it  was),  this  is  my  very  first  glimpse 
of  dear  mother  earth,  since  my  funeral. 

Beck.  You  must  be  overrun  with  briefs,  with  a 
vengeance. 

Hor.  I  am,  indeed.  There  are  clients  waiting 
for  me,  in  at  least  a  hundred  luminaries,  this  bless- 
ed minute. 

Beck.  Let  them  wait,  confound  them  !  Be- 
sides, it  is  your  duty,  my  dear  boy,  to  snatch  a  lit- 
tle relaxation,  now  and  then,  and  not  trifle  thus 
shamefully  with  your  spiritual  health.  Come,  let's 
make  a  day  of  it.  Youll  find  no  pleasanter  place 
than  this,  the  universe  over. 

Hor.  A  charming  spot,  certainly.  I  am  quite 
lost  in  admiration  and  delight. 

Beck.  And  then,  such  a  delicious  temperature  ! 

nor.  One  criticism,  however,  I  must  make 
bold  to  pass  upon  it. 

Beck.  Ah,  what  may  that  be  ? 

Hor.  It  is  altogether  too  gay  and  brilliant  for 
a  place  of  worship  ;  at  least  according  to  my  old- 
fashioned  Eoman  notions  ;  and  the  more  I  gaze 
around  me,  the  more  impressed  am  I  with  this  idea. 


HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD.  71 

Yon  golden  roof,  this  airy  dome  above  us,  these 
dainty  fields  of  marble,  these  festal  lamps,  these  rich, 
fantastic  columns,  this  resplendent  altar,  these 
glowing  mosaics,  these  gorgeous  monuments  that 
greet  the  eye  at  every  turn,  these  pilasters  thronged 
with  smiling  cherubs,  these  entablatures  populous 
with  angels,  charming,  charming  as  they  are,  su- 
perb, glorious  as  is  the  effect  of  the  whole,  do  nev- 
ertheless seem  to  me,  most  inappropriate  surround- 
ings for  a  house  of  prayer  ;  nor  can  I,  for  the  life 
of  me,  associate  this  magnificence  with  the  tears 
of  miserable  sinners,  the  supj)lications  of  prostrate 
penitents.     Am  I  not  right  ? 

Beck.  You  are  ;  the  idea  of  praying  here,  never 
entered  my  head.  On  the  contrary,  so  refreshed, 
so  exhilarated  am  I  by  this  scene  of  beauty  and 
sunshine,  that  I  can  hardly  keep  from  dancing. 
And  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  Hortensius,  I 
positively  caught  myself  humming  an  air  from  the 
Bayadere,  just  before  we  met, 

Hor.  Ah? 

Beck.  I  did,  indeed  ;  and  by  the  way,  what  a 
divine  ball-room  this  would  make,  brother.  I 
should  dearly  love  to  give  one  here. 

JSor.  Beckford,  Beckford. 

Bech.  Yes  ;  and  if  his  Holiness  would  only  give 


72  HORTENSIUS BECKFORD. 

me  carte  blanche,  for  the  next  six  months,  I  Nvonld 
show  you  an  entertainment,  such  as  was  never  be- 
fore witnessed  by  mortals. 

Hor.  Fie,  fie,  ghost ;  don't  talk  so  extravagant- 

Beck.  (Not  heeding  him.)  Yes,  I  would  assem- 
ble here  all  the  loveliest  creatures  from  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth  ;  the  choicest  flowers  and  per- 
fumes of  all  climes  should  shed  their  fragrance  ; 
the  nave  should  fairly  blaze  with  diamonds,  while 
the  gayest  and  richest  of  costumes  should  enliven 
the  chapels.  At  intervals  should  be  heard  the  gen- 
tle murmurs  of  scattered  fountains,  while  myriads 
of  lustres  should  diffuse  a  glorious  light ;  and  then 
for  the  music,  Hortensius  ;  such  strains,  such  de- 
licious combinations  as  you  should  listen  to,  now 
from  yon  airy  heights  above  us,  now  from  this  dain- 
ty shrine  at  our  feet ;  wouldn't  it  be  charming, 
my  friend  ? 

Hor.  I  have  no  doubt  you  would  make  a  right 
brilliant  thing  of  it. 

Bech.  And  then  the  banquet !  Such  a  ban- 
quet !  Talk  of  your  entertainments  at  Laurentum, 
and  at  Tusculum  !  Or  of  Nero's  doings  at  his 
Golden  House  !  I  would  put  Belshazzar  himself 
to  the  blush  !     Such  wines  and  viands,  such  heaps 


HOKTENSIUS BECKFORD.  73 

of  ruddy  fruits,  such  groups  of  brilliant  flowers, 
such  treasures  of  gold  and  crystal  and  porcelain  ! 
Yes,  every  sparkling  and  costly  device  of  art,  in 
the  way  of  bowl,  or  cup,  or  vase,  or  salver,  should 
crown  the  board,  from  the  chalices  of  Demetrius, 
to  the  chefs  d'oeuvresof  Benveuuto  ! 

Hor.  {Aside.)  The  same  profane,  voluptuous 
wretch  as  ever,  I  see. 

Beck.  What  are  you  saying,  Hortensius  ? 

Hor.  I  was  about  to  suggest,  that  you  should 
first  have  the  decency  to  veil  all  these  saints  and 
angels  about  us.  You  surely  would  not  wound 
their  eyes  with  any  such  abominations  ? 

Beck.  The  suggestion  is  a  good  one,  nor  should 
I  fail  to  act  upon  it.  On  second  thoughts,  how- 
ever, perhaps  an  opera  would  be  more  appropriate 
here.  Not  the  Barber,  of  course  ;  that  would  never 
do  ;  but  something  grand  and  classical ;  Belisario, 
for  instance,  or  Quinto  Fabio  ;  or  if  you  prefer  it, 
the  divine  Don  Giovanni,  of  my  dear  teacher,  Mo- 
zart. Better  still,  perhaps,  the  superb  Mose,  Yes, 
I  think  I  could  produce  that  grand  march  and 
chorus  in  the  last  act,  with  an  effect  not  yet  ap^ 
proached  on  the  planet.  You  are  familiar  with  the 
air,  no  doubt. 

Hor.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  do  not  remember 
4 


V4  HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD, 

ever  to  have  heard  a  single  bar  of  any  of  the  works 
to  which  you  refer. 

Beck.  What,  not  even  the  Fahio  ? 

Hor.  If  you  mean  my  illustrious  compatriot, 
I  am  certainly  no  stranger  to  his  many  virtues  and 
achievements,  nor  to  the  spirited  verses  in  his  hon- 
or, by  brother  Pacuvius  ;  but  that  he  ever  figured 
in  opera,  is  news  to  me.  What  are  you  grinning 
at.? 

Beck.  Oh,  nothing.  But  come,  Hortensius, 
what  say  you  to  a  Greek  tragedy  ?  Methinks  I 
could  carve  a  most  charming  theatre  out  of  this 
same  temple,  A  few  touches  would  readily  con- 
vert yon  high  altar  into  that  of  Bacchus,  and  these 
dainty  fields  around  it,  as  you  called  them  just  now, 
would  give  ample  room  for  the  mystic  dance  of  the 
chorus.  In  this  sumptuous  tribune  would  we 
erect  our  seats,  and  the  vast  nave  itself  should  be 
devoted  to  our  scenery  and  decorations.  Oh,  how 
I  could  bring  out  the  Prometheus  here,  or  the 
(Edipus  ;  with  a  world  of  devices,  too,  unknown  to 
Athenian  art ;  with  a  splendor  of  effect,  that  would 
thrill  ^schylus  himself  with  delight,  could  he  be- 
hold it. 

Hor.  But  why  seek  thus  to  profane  the  holy 
place  ?     Enough  of  this  romantic  nonsense.     And 


HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD.  75 

Beckford,  while  I  think  of  it,  how  the  deuce  came 
you  to  recognize  me  so  promptly  ? 

Bech.  I  should  have  been  very  stupid,  not  to  have 
recognized  you.  Why,  it  is  hardly  an  hour,  Hor- 
tensius,  since  I  was  looking  at  your  bust  at  the 
Capitol.     I  never  saw  a  more  perfect  likeness. 

Ho7\  Indeed  ? 

Beck.  Yes,  its  features  caught  my  eye  at  once, 
though  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  Caesars  and  Sa- 
ges ;  quite  the  gem  of  the  gallery,  I  assure  you. 
But  let  me  ask  in  return,  how  the  deuce  did  you, 
Hortensius,  become  so  familiar  with  my  antece- 
dents ? 

Hor.  Oh,  I  have  heard  of  you,  through  a  va- 
riety of  sources,  both  your  own  country-ghosts,  and 
mine.  Byron  has  told  me  a  good  deal  about  you, 
among  others.  A  great  admirer  of  yours,  though, 
inter  nos,  he  didn't  seem  to  think  the  admiration 
was  returned. 

B'ecJc.  A  clever  versifier,  certainly  ;  and  a  most 
adroit  plagiarist,  withal. 

Hor.  Sallust  too,  spoke  of  you,  quite  freely, 
the  other  day. 

Bech  No  doubt,  no  doubt,  hang  liim  !'  Of  all 
the  ghosts  I  have  run  against,  since  death,  the 
most  searching  and  severe.  What  did  he  say, 
though  ? 


76  HORTENSIUS»— BECKFORD. 

Eor.  You'll  not  be  offended  ? 

Beck.  Not  at  all. 

Hor.  Well,  he  certainly  gave  you  credit  for 
great  talents  and  accomplishments,  but  described 
you  as  a  most  dainty,  fastidious,  capricious,  self- 
willed  creature,  and  much  given  to  self-indulgence. 
A  rare  humorist,  he  added,  and  a  great  master  of 
sarcasm,  which  you  were  quite  too  fond  of  display- 
ing, at  the  expense  of  those  about  you  ;  with  a 
marvellous  eye  for  the  beautiful,  a  nose  of  sjngular 
susceptibility,  and  an  car  that  eagerly  devoured  all 
sweet  sounds,  while  it  suffered  a  corresponding 
martyrdom  from  their  opposites  ;  in  short,  one  of 
the  most  delicately  organized  beings  he  had  ever 
met  with.  He  described  you,  moreover,  as  a  very 
unsocial  person  ;  though  your  solitude,  he  added, 
was  very  far  from  that  of  the  anchorite.  He  ad- 
mired your  singing  and  playing  vastly,  and  your 
passionate,  vivid  descriptions  of  pictures  and  scene- 
ry, and  likewise  your  keen  analysis  of  terrestrial 
foibles  and  vices.  He  seemed  to  think  the  phi- 
lanthropic element  had  been  but  feebly  devel- 
oped in  you  ;  and  that,  even  now,  you  would  be 
far  more  likely  to  go  into  raptures  over  some  new- 
found flower,  or  melody,  or  beautiful  effect  in  na- 
ture, than  over  any  scheme,  however  grand  or  wise, 
for  the  improvement  of  your  fellow-ghosts. 


HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD.  77 

Beck.  A  most  amiable  character,  truly  ! 

nor.  I  don't  pretend  to  give  his  exact  words  ; 
still  less,  my  friend,  do  I  presume  to  endorse  the 
criticism.     You  asked,  and  I  have  answered. 

Beck.  Ah,  there's  quite  too  much  truth  in  it, 
Hortensius. 

Hor.  Lucullus,  on  the  contrary,  who  was  pre- 
sent at  the  time,  spoke  of  you  in  a  more  genial 
and  pleasant  way. 

Beck.  The  prince  of  good  fellows,  the  king  of 
dinner-givers  !  I  long  to  be  better  acquainted 
with  him. 

Hor.  Maecenas,  too,  is  another  of  your  admir- 
ers. 

Beck.  I  am  happy  to  hear  it.  I  have  not  met 
him  in  the  spirit  ;  and  only  once,  indeed,  in  the 
body.     That  was  a  good  while  ago,  too. 

Hor.  Whereabouts,  pray  ? 

Beck.  At  the  Grande  Chartreuse. 

Hor.  Where  may  that  be  ? 

Beck.  Why,  is  it  possible  you  have  never  heard 
of  that  famous  old  convent,  perched  amongst  the 
mountains  of  Savoy  ?  There  isn't  a  wilder,  more 
striking  place  on  the  planet.  Ah  dear,  I  shall 
never  forget  the  occasion.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
charming  moonlight  nights  of  Summer  I  ever  be- 


78  HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD. 

held,  and  our  interview  was  on  the  brow  of  one  of 
tliose  pine-clad  hills,  that  cast  their  shadows  on 
the  turrets  of  the  venerable  pile,  A  long  and  de- 
lightful colloquy  we  had  ;  Kome  and  her  past  glo- 
ries the  theme.  Some  of  the  sentiments,  to  be 
sure,  were  not  altogether  such  as  San  Bruno  would 
have  approved,  had  he  been  hovering  by.  M.  talk- 
ed admirably,  and  with  great  animation.  Our 
conversation,  protracted  till  long  after  midnight, 
was  at  length  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  two 
lay- brothers,  who  came  puffing  and  panting  up  the 
hill  after  me,  in  great  distress,  having  been  de- 
spatched by  the  worthy  fathers  below,  who  had  be- 
come quite  alarmed  at  my  long  absence.  More 
than  half  a  century  has  now  elajjsed,  and  I  have 
not  laid  eyes  on  the  dear  ghost  since. 

Hor.  But,  to  change  the  subject,  Beckford,  I 
confess  I  should  like  to  know  somewhat  more  of 
the  illustrious  person,  in  whose  honor  all  this  mag- 
nificent display  around  us  has  been  made,  and  for 
whose  remains  so  sumptuous  a  resting-place  has 
been  prepared. 

Beck.  {Aside.)  Very  different  lodgings,  certain- 
ly, from  any  he  ever  occupied  before  death. 

Hor.  That  he  is  somewhat  connected  with  a 
church,  that  has  signally  triumphed  over  the  one  I 


HOKTENSIUS — BECKFORD.  79 

belonged  to  while  in  the  body,  I  am  aware  ;  but 
what  was  the  nature  of  that  connection,  and  what 
were  the  signal  services  which  he  must  have  ren- 
dered his  brethren,  that  they  have  remembered  him 
thus  handsomely  ? 

Beck.  Pardon  me,  Hortensius,  but  I  must  again 
express  my  surprise  that  you  are  not  more  familiar 
with  this  subject, 

Hor.  Too  true,  my  friend  ;  and  I  must  again 
plead  in  reply,  my  exceeding  devotion  to  profession- 
al duties,  ever  since  leaving  the  planet,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  that  I  have  quite  lost  the  run 
both  of  its  creeds  and  of  its  politics.  But  you  do 
not  answer  my  questions.  Pray,  what  countrj^- 
man  was  this  same  deified  Peter,  and  how  long 
is  it  since  his  apotheosis  ?  State,  if  you  please, 
his  birth-place,  his  lineage,  his  profession.  You 
smile. 

Beck.  Profession  !     He  was  a  fisherman, 

Hor.  Come,  come,  none  of  your  fun. 

Beck.  I  repeat  it  ;  as  poor,  illiterate,  hard- 
working, sun-burnt  a  fisherman,  as  ever  dragged 
his  nets  in  all  Judaea. 

Hor.  You  mean  to  say,  then,  that  this  glorious 
cathedral  was  reared  in  honor  of  a  miserable  Jew, 
and  a  fisherman  ?     However,  I  would  not  speak 


80  HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD. 

disrespectfully  of  his  calling,  for  it  was  one  I  was 
always  partial  to. 

Beck.  So  I  have  heard. 

Hor.  But  go  on,  go  on.  •  Unriddle  this  myste- 
ry, if  you  please. 

Beck.  There  is  no  mystery  in  the  matter,  my 
friend.  But  you  have  never  looked-  into  a  Bible, 
of  course.  He  and  his  brother  were  in  the  very 
act  of  casting  their  net  into  the  sea  of  Galilee,  as 
the  Founder  of  the  new  faith  was  passing  by.  He 
straightway  summoned  them  to  follow  him.  They 
did  so,  were  faithful  disciples  during  his  life,  and 
when  the  Master  departed,  his  spirit  descended 
upon  them  ;  and  so  they  became  inspired  teachers, 
workers  of  miracles,  then  martyrs,  and  finally,  the 
blessed  saints  of  that  religion,  before  whose  tri- 
umphant progress,  those  false  gods  that  the  men 
of  your  day  worshipped,  have  long  since  bit  the 
dust.  Yes,  on  this  very  spot,  where  we  now  stand, 
and  on  which  Art  has  lavished  all  its  splendors  in 
commemoration  of  the  event  (so  runs  the  tradi- 
tion), did  your  cruel,  besotted  countrjTnen  put  to 
death  the  holy  apostle,  with  every  circumstance  of 
scorn  and  ignominy.  But  the  day  would  be  quite 
spent,  Hortensius,  were  I  to  undertake  to  give  you 
all  the  particulars  of  his  wonderful  history.     So,  if 


HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD,  81 

you  please,  we  will  postpone  it  to  some  more  con- 
venient season.  And  to  be  candid  with  you,  my 
friend,  I  would  rather  you  should  hear  it  from  a 
ghost,  who  would  be  more  likely  to  do  it  justice. 

Hor.  A  marvellous  story,  indeed.  Pray,  how 
long  ago  was  this  ?  Murdered  in  this  very  spot, 
say  you  ?  Do  tell  us  all  about  it.  You  have 
quite  piqued  ray  ghostly  curiosity,  I  assure  you. 

Bech.  No,  no  ;  I  am  not  in  the  vein.  Let^s 
change  the  subject.  By  the  way,  Hortensius, 
speaking  of  fishermen,  I  wonder  what  our  famous 
saint  would  have  said  to  your  ponds,  and  the  fright- 
ful sums  you  spent  upon  them.  He  conducted 
his  fishing  on  very  different  principles,  eh,  my  boy  ? 

Hor.  What  do  you  mean  ?     Explain  yourself 

Beck.  Why,  I  merely  mean  to  say  this  ;  that 
what  was  the  costly  whim  of  your  leisure  hourSj 
was  to  him  the  source  of  a  hardly  earned  and  pre- 
carious subsistence.  Nor  do  I  believe,  indeed,  that 
he  ever  accumulated,  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
earthly  pilgrimage,  as  many  sesterces,  as  you  have 
often  squandered  on  a  pet  eel,  or  overgrown  turbot. 

Sor.  I  was  an  extravagant  dog  in  that  respect, 
I  confess. 

Beck.  Still  less,  Hortensius,  did  he  ever  shed 
tears  over  dying  lampreys, 
4* 


82  HORTENSIUS — BECKFOED. 

Hor.  How? 

Beck.  Or  pen  plaintive  epitaphs  in  honor  of 
departed  mullets. 

Hor.  Who  told  you  that,  I  wonder  ? 

Beck.  Or,  worst  of  all,  serve  up  slaves'  flesh  to 
his  scaly  darlings. 

Hor.  What,  in  Pluto's  name,  do  you  mean  by 
that  last  remark  ? 

Beck.  Ah,  you  deny  the  charge,  do  you  ?  I 
am  right  glad  to  hear  it. 

Hor.  I  do,  most  distinctly.  That  I  had  a 
foolish  passion  for  fish-ponds,  like  some  other  of  my 
lich  countrymen,  I  admit  ;  and  that  a  large  por- 
tion of  my  fees  was  absorbed  thereby  ;  but  as  to 
ever  being  guilty  of  any  such  inhumanity  as  you 
would  insinuate,  I  pronounce  the  charge  a  vile  fab- 
rication.    Pray,  who  were  your  informants  ? 

Beck,  Varro,  and  the  elder  Pliny. 

Hor.  Ah,  I  can  readily  understand  Varro's 
malice.  I  lost  a  cause  for  him  once  in  the  Forum, 
and  he  has  never  forgiven  me  for  it,  since.  As  to 
Pliny,  he  be  hanged,  for  a  stupid  old  bore  and  cox- 
comb ! 

Beck.  Do  you  think  so  ?  Why,  he  struck  me 
as  one  of  the  most  chatty,  entertaining  ghosts 
I  ever  encountered  ;  a  little  Munchausenish,  to  be 


HORTENSIUS BECKFORD.  83 

sure,  but  vastly  fluent  and  pleasant.  He  had  a 
world  of  piquant  things  to  say  about  you,  Horten- 
sius,  and  your  famous  house  on  the  Palatine,  and 
its  cellars,  and  its  picture-galleries,  and  your  su- 
perb villa  at  Tusculum,  and  especially,  of  that  fa- 
vorite plane-tree,  whose  roots  you  used  to  pamper 
with  Falernian.  But  that  last  is,  of  course,  another 
of  the  old  naturalist's  fibs. 

Hor.  No,  no  ;  I  plead  guilty  to  the  plane-tree. 

Beck.  Why,  what  an  extravagant  whim  ! 

Hor.  Ah,  had  you  seen  the  darling,  Beckford, 
you  would  have  forgiven  my  fondness.  What  a 
magnificent  specimen,  to  be  sure  !  Such  a  girth, 
such  a  shadow  as  it  cast  !  I  have  seen  nothing 
like  it  in  any  planet,  since.  And  then,  the  pleas- 
ant pic-nics  we  used  to  have  under  it,  and  the  mu- 
sic in  the  summer  evenings  !  To  say  nothing,  my 
friend,  of  the  delightful  talks  with  Curio  and  Cice- 
ro, and  other  neighbors,  and  a  whole  host  of  agree- 
able guests  from  town.  Is  it  strange  that  I  should 
have  — 

Beck.  Say  no  more  ;  your  enthusiam  is  perfect- 
ly justifiable.  Ah  dear,  I  wish  I  had  lived  in  those 
days.  I  should  have  relished  a  dinner  at  your  villa, 
amazingly  ;  and  then,  to  have  had  a  nap  after  it, 
under  that  same  tree.     Wouldn't  it  have  been  de- 


84  HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD, 

licious  ?  Such  dreams  as  I  should  have  had,  such 
visions  of  Picus  and  his  Pomona,  of  Apollo  and 
Daphne,  of  Circe  and  her  Syrens,  and  the  flowery- 
kirtled  Naiades, 

"  Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree." 

Ho7\  {Aside.)  What  the  deuce  is  he  talking 
about  ?  He  is,  by  all  odds,  the  most  eccentric 
ghost  I  ever  stumbled  over. 

Beck.  Ah,  Hortensius,  all  our  modern  attempts 
at  luxury,  what  are  they,  compared  with  the  en- 
tertainments of  you  classical  boys  ! 

Eor.  And  yet,  I  have  heard  great  things  of 
your  Fonthill  Abbey,  and  the  doings  there. 

Beck.  Poh,  poh  !  mere  child's  play,  alongside 
of  Laurentum.  I  had  some  few  oriental  knick- 
knacks  there,  to  be  sure,  worth  looking  at,  and  a 
few  tolerable  Flemish  pictures  ;  but  don't  speak  of 
it  in  the  same  breath,  I  beseech  you,  with  your 
galleries,  and  parks,  and  gardens.  By  the  way, 
are  you  keeping  as  extensive  a  menagerie  now,  as 
you  used  to  ?  And  does  your  trumpeter  summon 
the  beasts  to  their  meals  with  the  same  orphic 
blasts  as  of  yore  ?  That  must  have  been  a  great 
sight,  Hortensius.  But  what  are  you  staring  at  so  ? 


HOKTENSIUS — BECKFORD.  85 

Hor.  At  yonder  picture.  Pray,  who  is  the 
artist  ? 

Beck.  What,  yon  mosaic  to  the  right  ?  That's 
Guido's  Michael ;  and  in  my  opinion,  his  cci^^o 
d'opera. 

Hor.  Charming,  indeed  !  It  reminds  me  some- 
what of  an  Apelles  I  once  owned  ;  only  larger, 
and  more  striking.  What  a  magnificent  creature  ! 
Such  splendid  armor,  too  !  But  don't  he  look  a 
little  too  serene  and  nonchalant,  considering  what 
a  terrible  combat  he  has  just  come  out  of,  with 
that  scowling  monster  beneath  him  ?  May  not  the 
artist  have  sacrificed  truth  to  beauty  here,  some- 
what ? 

Beck.  I  agree  with  you.  The  idea  has  often 
occurred  to  me,  while  looking  at  his  works,  delight- 
ful as  they  are  ;  more  especially  in  his  treatment 
of  St.  Sebastian.  'Twas  but  yesterday,  that  I  was 
looking  at  a  picture  of  his,  on  that  subject,  wherein 
the  youthful  martyr,  though  pierced  by  at  least 
fifty  arrows,  looks  as  ruddy  and  smiling,  as  if  he 
were  just  about  to  sit  down  to  a  pleasant  repast  of 
strawberries  and  cream. 

Hor.  Indeed  !  But  what  superb  picture  is 
that,  nest  to  it  ? 

Beck.  Ah,  that's  a  famous  Guercino  ;  full  of 
noble  figures, 


86  HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD. 

Hor.  It  is  so  ;  but  holloa,  what  an  exquisite 
pair  of  verd-antique  columns  that  is  !  Is  it  possible, 
too,  one  single  piece  ?     I  am  amazed. 

Beck.  Beauties,  are  they  not  ?  They  did  duty 
once  in  a  pagan  palace,  if  I  remember  rightly,  and 
were  afterwards  presented  to  his  Holiness,  by  some 
pious  prince  in  the  neighborhood. 

Hor.  Princely  gifts,  truly.  Ah,  Beckford, 
there  seems  to  be  no  end  to  the  treasures  or  splen- 
dors here. 

Beck.  Rich  as  a  bride-cake,  isn't  it  ? 

Hor.  And  to  think,  that  I  am  old  enough  to 
remember  when  this  same  hill  was  the  very  vilest, 
filthiest  place  in  all  Rome  ! 

Beck.  Ah  !     Do  tell  us. 

Hor.  Yes,  only  one  shabby  house  on  it,  with  a 
sorry  vineyard  annexed  ;  the  grapes  not  worth  a 
schoolboy's  steahng  ;  while  the  rest  of  it  was  pret- 
ty much  occupied  by  dead  dogs  and  broken 
crockery. 

Beck.  Pleasant  tenants,  certainly.  WeU,  well, 
I  suppose  it  will  come  to  that,  again,  one  of  these 
days. 

Hor.  Heaven  forbid  ! 

Beck.  And  why  not,  pray  ?  What's  to  pre- 
vent it  ?     I  have  no  more  doubt,  myself,  that  des- 


HORTENSIUS — BECKFORD.  87 

olation  will  again  overtake  it,  and  that  this  same 
pompous  pile  will,  in  God's  good  time,  become  an 
ivy-mantled  ruin,  than  I  have  that  the  Colosseum 
is  one  to-day.  How  can  I  help  thinking  so,  or 
you  either,  after  what  you  have  seen  on  the  Pala- 
tine ? 

Eor.  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  my  friend. 
And  yet,  'tis  sad  to  think  that  this  magnificent 
dome  must  come  toppling  down,  and  all  these 
placid  saints  and  lovely  angels  be  crushed  beneath 
the  ruins. 

Beck.  They  will  be,  depend  upon  it,  and  will 
lie  there,  buried  for  ages  ;  and  travellers  from  far 
lands  will  come,  and  dig  them  out  again,  and  pore 
over  their  shattered  features,  and  puzzle  over  the 
mysterious  inscriptions  scattered  about  them. 
And  why  not  ?  I  confess,  the  thought  is  an 
agreeable  one  to  me  ;  and  I  enjoy  the  precious 
marbles,  and  exquisite  bas-reliefs  of  these  sump- 
tuous monuments  all  the  more,  because  I  feel  that 
the  sheep  will  yet  be  nibbling  the  herbage  around 
them. 

Hor.  Well,  there's  something  in  that,  certain- 
ly. But,  brother  B.,  I  begin  to  be  a  little  weary 
of  all  this  splendor.  Suppose  we  fly  out,  and  taste 
the  air  awhile.     What  say  you  to  a  flying  trip  to 


88  HORTENSIUS— BECKFORD. 

Tusculum  ?  Perhaps  we  may  not  find  things 
quite  so  desolate  there,  as  at  the  Palatine.  I 
should  like  to  take  a  look  at  my  little  property  in 
that  neighborhood,  1  confess. 

Bech.  You'll  hardly  be  able  to  identify  it,  I 
reckon. 

Ho7'.  Don't  you  believe  it.  The  villa,  of 
course,  and  the  plane-tree,  were  dust,  ages  ago  ; 
but  I  may  find  an  old  acquaintance  or  two,  in 
my  olive-yards, 

BecJc.  You're  joking,  surely. 

Hor,  Not  at  all.  I  have  known  olive-trees  to 
yield  plentifully,  after  having  seen  two  thousand 
summers.  I  may  find  my  initials  on  some  of 
them  yet.     Come,  let's  be  off. 

Bech.  Certainly.  I  should  like  to  stop  a 
moment,  though,  as  we  go,  on  the  Pincian.  I 
have  a  message  to  deliver  to  a  Portuguese  friend 
there. 

Hor.  As  you  will. 

Bech.  And  after  our  excursion,  we  will  return 
here  in  the  evening. 

Hor.  What  for  ? 

Bech.  Why,  to  see  the  illumination,  of  course, 
A  most  charming  sight,  I  assure  you.  After 
which,  if  you  say  so,  we'll  have  another  little  dish 


HORTENSIUS BECKFORD.  89 

of  chat,  at  the  Fountain  of  Trevi.  How  do  you 
like  the  programme  ? 

Hor.  It  suits  me  exactly.  But  it  is  high  time 
we  were  on  the  wing. 

Beck.  I  attend  you.  [Exeunt. 


JASON— KALEIGH. 

[SCENE— CATSKILL  MOUNTAIN  HOUSE,  A.  D.  2000.] 

Ral.  All,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  delighted  to 
meet  you.  The  very  moment  I  saw  your  name 
upon  the  register,  I  flew  to  pay  my  respects.  How 
have  you  been,  these  ages  past,  and  what  brings 
you  hither  ? 

Jas.  Never  better,  my  dear  fellow,  never  bet- 
ter ;  only  a  little  wing-weary.  As  to  your  other 
inquiry,  Walter,  it  is  very  readily  answered.  You 
must  know,  then,  that  I  was  sauntering  through 
space,  without  any  special  object  in  view  (and,  in- 
deed, I  greatly  needed  some  recreation,  after  my 
recent  arduous  labors),  when  I  most  unexpectedly 
found  myself  in  the  neighborhood  of  our  dear  old 
homestead  of  an  earth.  Gratified  as  I  was,  I  still 
hardly  think  I  should  have  alighted  at  present 
(though  it  is  full  a  century  since  my  last  visit), 
had  I  not  been  completely  fascinated  by  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  picture  beneath  me  ;  so  much  so, 


JASON — RALEIGH.  91 

that  I  insensibly  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  at 
last,  this  superb  hotel  was  revealed  to  rae,  in  all  its 
stately  proportions,  and  majestic  surroundings. 
My  heart  was  won,  at  once,  and  I  determined  to 
come  down  immediately,  book  myself,  try  the  cui- 
sine, and  enjoy  the  scenery,  for  a  day  or  two.  Lit- 
tle thought  I,  Walter,  that  the  very  first  person  to 
greet  me  here,  would  have  been  your  gallant  self. 
And  now  let  me  retort  your  own  question  upon 
you.     What  may  your  errand  here  be  ? 

Ral.  A  mere  j)leasure  jaunt,  brother.  You 
must  know  that  I  am  very  fond  of  coming  back  to 
earth.  Hardly  a  lustrum  rolls  by,  indeed,  without 
my  dropping  down,  either  on  Old  or  New  England. 
America,  you  are  aware,  was  always  a  favorite  spot 
with  me.  Even  when  a  mortal,  it  stood  upper- 
most in  my  affections.  My  highest  ambition,  my 
dearest  hopes,  were  ever  identified  with  it  ;  and, 
as  an  immortal,  I  need  not  tell  you,  that  I  hold  it 
dearer  than  ever,  and  watch  its  progress  with  the 
liveliest  interest. 

Jas.  I  think  I  remember  hearing  you  speak  on 
this  subject  before.  Brother  Drake,  too,  has  had 
a  good  deal  to  tell  me,  at  one  time  and  another, 
about  American  colonization  ;  a  great  hobby  of 
his ;  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  yours,  by  the  way. 


92  JASON — RALEIGH. 

Ral.  I  reciprocate  it,  most  cordially.  A  glo- 
rious old  ghost  he  is. 

J  as.  But  pray  how  long  have  you  been  here  ? 

Ral.  Oh,  several  days.  I  am  quite  familiar 
both  with  the  scenery  and  the  company.  We  are 
the  only  two  ghosts  on  the  books,  probably  ;  but 
as  to  mortals,  you  will  find  them  from  every  corner 
of  the  planet ;  some  most  charming  ones,  and  some 
very  eccentric  specimens.  So,  come,  brother,  if 
you  are  really  disposed  to  try  pot-luck  with  us,  I 
shall  be  most  proud  to  be  your  Cicerone. 

Jas.  Bravo,  bravo  ;  what  a  lucky  fellow  I  am  ! 

Ral.  But,  Jason,  you  were  speaking  of  the 
hard  work  that  you  have  been  doing  lately.  May 
I  inquire  into  its  nature  ? 

Jas.  Certainly.  You  must  know,  then,  that 
we  have  been  on  a  grand  Celestial  Exploring  Ex- 
pedition, for  some  time  past ;  the  command  of 
which  was  intrusted  to  your  humble  servant. 

Ral.  Ah  ! 

Jas.  Yes,  and  a  busy  time  we  have  had  of  it, 
I  assure  you.  What  with  hunting  up  lost  stars, 
finding  and  christening  new  ones,  studying  Floras 
and  Faunas,  making  mineralogical  collections, 
picking  up  stray  meteors,  putting  comets  to  rights, 
testing  chronometers,  calculating   parallaxes,  and 


JASON RALEIGH.  93 

an  infinity  of  astronomical  observations  besides,  we 
have  had  our  hands  full. 

Ral.  I  should  think  so.  Well,  you  have  been 
bounteously  rewarded,  no  doubt,  for  your  trouble, 
and  the  glorious  cause  of  science  benefited.  Really, 
my  dear  Argonaut,  you  quite  pique  my  ghostly 
curiosity.  Pray,  in  what  part  of  the  heavens 
have  you  been  so  busy  ?  From  what  star  did  you 
sail  ?  How  many  vessels  had  you  in  your  sky-fleet, 
and  have  they  all  returned  in  safety  ? 

Jas.  Don't  ask  me  now,  brother.  It  would 
take  a  good  long  summer's  day,  to  give  you  the 
merest  outline  of  our  doings.  Besides,  the  whole 
history  of  the  expedition  is  already  in  the  hands  of 
the  printers,  and  will  be  published  shortly,  in  all 
the  leading  planets.  You  may  depend  on  my 
sending  you  an  early  copy. 

Ral.  Thanks,  thanks,  I  shall  be  right  eager 
to  get  hold  of  it. 

Jas.  But  heavens  and  earth,  what  a  magnifi- 
cent panorama  !  We  have  seen  nothing  finer  than 
this,  in  our  whole  cruise,  let  me  tell  you.  After 
all,  there  is  nothing  like  our  dear  little  native 
planet  ;  eh,  Raleigh  ?  The  jewel  of  the  system  ! 
Saturn,  to  be  sure,  makes  rather  a  prettier  show, 
in  the  evening  ;  but  by  blessed  day-light,  what  is 


94  JASON — RALEIGH. 

there  to  compare  to  us,  in  the  wa}^  of  tints  or 
shades,  fruits,  flowers,  or  foliage  ?  As  to  Jupiter, 
name,  if  you  can,  a  solitary  landscape  on  its  vast 
surface,  to  be  compared  with  the  view  from  this 
rock. 

Bal.  You're  quite  right,  brother. 

Jas.  One  hardly  knows  how  to  express  one's 
admiration,  or  where  to  begin  to  study  these  deli- 
cious details. 

"  A  blending  of  all  beauties  ;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  vine." 

What  superb  towns  !  What  cozy  villages  !  What 
shining  fields  !  What  flocks  and  herds  !  What 
a  majestic  river  !  What  a  stately  procession  of 
vessels  !     Is  it  not  glorious  ? 

Ral.  It  is,  indeed. 

Jas.  But  holloa,  holloa  !  These  Hesperides 
are  not  without  their  dragons,  I  see.  What  hor- 
rible monster  is  that,  rattling  up  the  hill  here,  and 
spitting  fire  and  vapor  at  such  a  fearful  rate  ? 
Heavens,  what  a  tail  he  carries  !  And,  by  Jove, 
there  goes  another,  dashing  by  him  with  the  same 
fury  ! 

Ral.  Why,  brother,  you  seem  agitated.  That's 
merely  the  locomotive,  bringing  up  the  passengers 


JASON — KALEIGH,  95 

from  the  boat.  There's  a  regular  hourly  train, 
each  way. 

Jas.  Oh,  true,  true.  What  an  old  fool  I  was, 
to  be  sure  !  Do  you  know,  Walter,  my  wits  were 
actually  wandering  for  a  moment,  and  I  fancied 
myself  back  at  Colchis,  and  that  these  were  the 
flame-breathing  bulls  of  old  king  ^etes  ! 

Ral.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  That  is  a  good  one.  A 
long  while  ago,  Jason,  since  you  ploughed  with 
those  cattle.  By  the  way,  I  have  heard  it  sug- 
gested, more  than  once,  by  some  of  the  philosophi- 
cal skeptics  here  below,  fellows  who  are  always 
putting  into  prose  the  choicest  poetry  of  existence, 
that  these  same  fire-spitting  bulls  and  dragons  of 
yours  were,  after  all,  only  other  names  for  steam 
engines. 

Jas.  Pshaw  !  But  come,  Walter,  don't  let's 
waste  our  time  on  mythology,  in  a  place  like  this. 
Ah,  here  come  the  cars.  Bless  me,  what  a  crowd 
of  passengers  ! 

Ral.  On  the  contrary,  brother,  it  is  altogether 
the  lightest  load  I  have  seen  here  ;  hardly  a  thou- 
sand, all  told  ;  a  mere  joke  for  such  an  engine  as 
that. 

Jas.  Exquisite  workmanship,  by  Jove  !  What's 
that  name  on  it  ? 


96  JASON RALEIGH. 

Rdl.  Daniel  Webstei-.  A  famous  old  locomo- 
tive it  is,  too.  It  has  been  running  more  than 
forty  years  on  this  road,  they  tell  me,  without  an 
accident,  or  the  loss  of  a  single  trip.  Here  it  is, 
you  see,  as  usual,  punctual  to  the  very  second. 
Besides  the  cars,  they  have  a  line  of  Aerial  Packets 
also,  connecting  with  the  Steamers  ;  most  commo- 
dious, well-regulated  vehicles,  you'll  find  them. 
The  railroad  seems  to  be  preferred,  however  ;  es- 
pecially by  the  more  aged  and  conservative  portion 
of  the  guests.  'Twas  but  yesterday,  by  the  way, 
that  I  was  discussing  this  very  point  at  dinner, 
with  an  old  lady  here.  She  would  not  be  persuaded, 
however.  She  had  no  faith  whatever,  she  said,  in 
these  new-fangled  air-craft,  nor  would  ever  let  a 
child  of  hers  set  foot  in  one.  Terra  firn!ia  was  good 
enough  for  her,  and  two  miles  a  minute  ought  to 
satisfy  any  reasonable  mortal.    Perhaps  she's  right. 

Jas.  Two  miles  a  minute  ?  That  we  should 
have  called  pretty  fast  travelling,  in  Thessaly. 

Rdl.  But  come,  Jason,  we  shall  have  abundant 
opportunities  of  studying  out  this  wonderful  pic- 
ture beneath  us.  I  want  to  show  you  some  of 
the  appointments  of  this  princely  establishment. 
You  have  not  seen  it  yet,  I  am  sure. 

Jas.  Oh  no  ;  in  fact,  I  had   but  just  entered 


JASON RALEIGH.  97 

n^y  name  when  j'oii  hove  in  sight.  Its  exterior 
promises  wonders,  certainly.  Minerva  mia,  what 
a  colonnade  ! 

JRal.  It  is  greatly  admired  here,  I  find.  Those 
pillars,  you  will  perceive,  are  all  of  a  single  piece, 
and  the  capitals  will  bear  the  most  critical  inspec- 
tion. 

Jas.  Charming,  charming  !  And  who  are  all 
those  stately  creatures  in  marble,  that  crown  the 
balustrade  ? 

Hal.  The  Conscript  Fathers  of  the  republic. 
Well  placed,  are  they  not,  thus  looking  down  be- 
nignantly  on  this  glorious  result  of  their  labors  ? 
You'll  find  the  execution  worthy  of  the  conception. 
But  here  we  are,  at  the  grand  eastern  entrance. 
Come,  let's  ^  look  in  at  the  ladies'  Drawiug-Room. 
The  guests  are  very  much  scattered  at  this  time  of 
day,  of  course  ;  but  you  will  find  a  brilliant  assem- 
blage here  in  the  evening. 

Jas.  What  a  superb  apartment  !  How  taste- 
fully furnished,  too  !  Let  me  see  ;  one,  two,  three 
— why,  there  are  no  less  than  eight  grand  pianos 
in  sight, 

Hal.  True,  and  there  are  some  splendid  per- 
formers on  them  here,  let  me  tell  you  :  what  with 
5 


98  JASON — RALEIGH. 

their  music,  and  that  of  the  noble  band  attached 
to  the  hotel,  we  are  most  bountifully  supplied. 

Jas.  But,  brother,  these  frescoes  seem  to  me 
admirably  done.  What  subjects  do  they  illustrate  ? 

Ral.  American,  exclusively.  The  most  remark- 
able of  the  series,  is  this  to  our  right,  which  com- 
memorates the  life  and  labors  of  the  illustrious 
Cole,  the  Salvator  of  the  19th  century,  as  they 
call  him  here.  I  have  been  looking  over  his  biog- 
raphy since  my  arrival  ;  having  been  referred  to  it 
by  the  friend  who  explained  to  me  this  same  series. 
A  charming  old  book  it  is,  too  ;  full  of  intelligent 
enthusiasm.  From  what  I  read  in  it,  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  the  artist  was  a  far  greater  than 
Salvator. 

Jas.  Indeed  ! 

Ral.  Ay,  or  than  Claude  ;  a  far  purer,  loftier, 
more  comprehensive  mind  than  either  ;  that  he 
read  far  deeper  lessons  in  the  pages  of  nature,  and 
in  the  heart  of  man  ;  lessons  of  Faith  and  Love, 
not  to  be  found  in  the  pictures  of  the  one,  with  all 
their  dream-like  splendors,  or  in  the  more  roman- 
tic and  passion-informed  scenes  of  the  other.  I 
confess,  I  am  most  curious  to  see  his  works,  and 
the  manner  in  which  he  has  transferred  to  canvas 


JASON RALEIGH.  99 

his  sublime  conceptions,  as  tliey  are  recorded  by 
his  biographer. 

Jas.  Where  are  his  pictures  ? 

Ral.  Almost  all  in  America.  They  are  not 
very  numerous,  I  am  told,  and  are  widely  scattered  ; 
though  valued  far  before  those  of  any  American 
artist  of  that  day.  Some  of  the  finest,  it  seems, 
are  in  the  great  metropolis. 

Jas.  Are  there  none  here  ? 

Ral.  Only  two,  which  I  will  show  you  in  the 
library.  One  is  very  small,  but  well  preserved  ; 
a  scene  in  Sicily,  and  a  perfect  little  gem.  The 
other  is  a  picture  of  this  very  spot,  and  of  the  origi- 
nal hotel  here.  A  very  primitive-looking  place, 
then,  brother.  Of  these  frescoes,  by  the  way,  the 
one  that  pleased  me  most  is  this  we  are  coming  to  ; 
wherein  the  painter  is  represented  as  showing  to 
his  illustrious  brother-artist,  Durand,  and  the  fa- 
mous old  poet,  Bryant,  a  waterfall  that  he  had 
recently  discovered  in  his  rambles  in  these  woods  ; 
then  but  very  imperfectly  explored,  it  seems  ;  hard- 
ly known,  indeed,  save  to  the  intrepid  artist  him- 
self, and  some  few  hunters  of  the  village  he  then 
lived  in,  the  present  superb  city  of  Cattskill. 

Jas.  All  yes,  I  see,  I  see  ;  admirably  painted. 
We  must  come  back  here,  brother,  in  the  morning, 


100  JASON RALEIGH. 

and  study  these  out  at  our  leisure.  But,  Dio  mio, 
what  monster  apartment  is  this  we  are  coming  to  ? 

Bal.  This  is  the  Dining-Room  ;  by  all  odds, 
the  most  capacious  I  ever  took  a  meal  in.  They 
can  accommodate  five  thousand  here,  on  a  pinch, 
the  landlord  told  me  ;  forty-five  hundred,  with  per- 
fect comfort.  But  you'll  soon  see  for  yourself.  A 
pretty  sight,  Jason,  a  dinner  here.  You  will  be 
especially  struck  with  the  appearance  and  evolu- 
tions of  the  waiters  ;  a  noble  corjjs  of  nearly  a 
thousand  men,  most  tastefully  dressed  and  perfect 
time-keepers.  The  way  they  march  in  with  the 
dessert,  to  the  tune  of  Hail  Columbia,  is  truly  im- 
pressive. Here  is  to-day's  Bill  of  Fare,  by  the  way. 

Jas.  Where,  where  ? 

Bal.  Why,  here,  to  be  sure,  on  this  marble 
coimter. 

Jas.  God  bless  me,  I  took  it  for  a  Gift-Book. 
What  a  sumptuous,  massive  volume  !  Ah,  yes, 
yes, — Cattskill  Mountain  House,  July  9,  2000, — 
Polyglot  Bill  of  Fare.  Ten  different  languages, 
I  declare.  Heavens,  what  a  Wine-List,  too  ! 
More  than  half  seem  to  be  of  native  growth. 

Bal.  Yes,  there  has  been  a  wonderful  impulse 
given  to  that  department  of  industry  here,  within 
the  last   half  century.     The   American   wines,   it 


JASON — RALEIGH.  101 

seems,  now  outrank  all  others,  at  the  tables  of  epi- 
cures. The  poor  Rhine  and  Garonne  are  quite 
forgotten  in  the  superb  growths  of  the  Ohio,  and 
the  Illinois.  And  with  reason,  if  I  may  judge  by 
the  very  first  specimen  that  I  stumbled  over  here  ; 
bottled  at  Cairo,  if  I  remember  rightly. 

Jas.  Here  it  is,  here  it  is.  Cairo  Golden  Sher- 
ry, Vintage  of  1976.  Ten  exclamation-marks — 
quarts,  ten  dollars,  pints,  jive.  We'll  try  that 
to-day,  Walter,  if  you  say  so. 

Eal.  With  all  my  heart.  But  we  must  not 
linger  here  any  longer.  This  way,  brother,  this 
way.     I  want  to  show  you  our  library. 

Jas.  What  a  cozy  room  !  Ah,  whose  statue 
is  that  in  the  centre  ? 

Bal.  Whose  should  it  be,  but  that  of  our  dear 
ghost,  Irving  ? 

Jas.  Is  it  possible  ?  What  a  charming  look- 
ing person  ! 

Ral.  And  a  most  capital  likeness  of  the  great 
story-teller.  His  best  stories,  as  you  are  aware, 
though  read  and  relished,  in  all  climes  and  tongues, 
are  more  especially  identified  with  the  sublime 
scenery  around  us.  There  is  a  much  larger  and 
finer  statue  of  him,  by  the  way,  recently  executed, 
and  now   in  the   portico  of  the   Cattskill  Opera 


102  JASON — RALEIGH. 

House.  Bless  his  old  soul,  for  the  most  amiable 
of  spectres  !  Of  all  the  American  classics,  he  has 
the  first  place,  evidently,  in  the  popular  heart. 
You  can't  turn  your  head  indeed,  without  encoun- 
tering his  name  or  features,  in  some  shape  or  other  ; 
from  first-class  hotels  down  to  fruit-cakes,  from 
ocean-steamers  down  to  razor-strops.  Ah  dear,  if 
fame  could  do  a  poor  ghost  any  good,  he  certainly 
has  his  fill  of  it. 

Jas.  He  deserves  it,  I  dare  say.  I  "wdsh  I  was 
more  familiar  with  his  writings.  Do  you  know, 
Walter,  that  the  only  one  of  his  stories  I  am  ac- 
quainted with,  is  the  immortal  Kip  Van  Winkle  ; 
as  brother  Lucian  used  to  recite  it,  with  infinite 
humor,  in  his  Greek  version.  If  so  delicious  in  a 
translation,  what  must  the  original  be  ? 

Eal.  Let  me  show  you  his  works,  while  I  think 
of  it  ;  so  that  if  you  have  any  leisure  moments 
here,  you  may  know  how  to  invest  them.  Here, 
Jason,  on  this  shelf  behind  us  ;  right  over  brother 
Cooper  ;  forty  volumes  in  all,  you  see. 

Jas.  Bless  me,  what  a  feast  ! 

Bal.  And  here,  brother,  are  the  two  Coles  we 
were  speaking  about.  While  you  are  looking  at 
them,  I  want  to  refer  to  a  passage  in  the  biogra- 
phy of  the  artist.  I'll  be  back  presently.     {Return  - 


JASON RALEIGH.  103 

ing )  Ah,  you're  still  lingering  over  them,  I 
see. 

Jas.  Yes.  indeed.  This  Sicilian  scene  is  a  most 
delicious  bit  of  painting  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  old 
recollections  that  it  revives  within  me  ;  but,  Pluto 
save  us,  what  horrible  sounds  are  those  ? 

Ral.  Only  the  preparation-gong. 

Jas.  Ah  ! 

Ral.  I  had  no  idea,  though,  that  it  was  so  near 
dinner-time. 

Jas.  Our  ghostly  toilets  are  soon  made,  Wal- 
ter.    Ah,  here's  another  colossal  apartment,  I  see. 

Ral.  Yes,  that's  our  Reading-Room.  They 
talk  of  adding  a  couple  of  acres  to  it,  next  season. 
It  seems  that  a  thousand  papers  a  day  are  not  suffi- 
cient to  meet  the  wants  of  the  guests  here.  Their 
tables,  too,  are  altogether  too  small  to  hold  the 
continually  increasing  crowd  of  magazines  and 
serials,  all  over  the  Republic.  We'll  merely  pass 
through  it  at  present.  And  now,  Jason,  here  we 
are  at  the  Billiard-Room.  A  fine,  well-lighted 
chamber,  is  it  not  ?  If  it  were  not  so  late,  I  would 
propose  a  game.  But,  perhaj)s  you  Thessalians 
are  not  familiar  with  it. 

Jas.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  used  to  play  a  good 
deal  in  my  day,  both  at  lolcos  and  at  the  court 


104  JASON RALEIGH. 

of  my  father-in-law.  He  himself  played  a  famous 
mace-game.  Our  tables  were  larger,  hut  not  so 
elegant  as  these.  I  never  saw  so  many  together, 
before,  certainly.  What  a  forest  of  cues  !  How 
gay  the  ceiling  is,  too  !  Pray,  what  signify  all 
these  heraldic  devices  ? 

Ral.  They  are  the  coats  of  arms  of  the  eighty 
States.  One  of  them,  brother,  to  which  my  atten- 
tion was  called  by  a  guest  here,  I  have  been  study- 
ing with  great  gratification.  You  are  standing 
directly  under  it.  Don't  you  see  ?  My  name, 
motto,  and  crest,  blended  with  all  those  plants  and 
prairie-flowers  ;  those,  brother,  are  the  emblems 
of  the  beautiful  young  State  of  Ealeigh.  I  was 
much  gratified,  before,  at  finding  myself  identified 
with  the  capital  of  one  of  the  glorious  old  Thir- 
teen ;  to  say  nothing  of  counties  and  townships, 
all  over  the  Union  ;  but,  really,  this  last  honor  is 
quite  overwhelming. 

Jas.  Of  course,  they  have  no  Jason  among 
them, 

Bal.  Strange  to  say,  you  are  pretty  much  the 
only  Greek  hero,  not  on  the  Postmaster-General's 
list.  I  have  seen  you  occasionally  here,  however  ; 
in  Turf-Registers,  on  clippers,  and  canal-boats ; 
very  seldom,  though. 


JASON-^RALEIGH.  105 

Jas.  Well,  well,  I  shall  soon  be  forgotten  alto- 
gether. 

Bal.  Not  while  Pindar  lives. 

Jas.  Does  Pindar  live  ?  In  this  part  of  the 
world,  I  mean. 

BaL  You  would  have  thought  so,  had  you 
heard  the  shouts  of  applause  with  which  his  name 
was  received,  at  a  recent  college  commencement. 
But  your  fame,  brother,  now  rests  on  a  far  more 
popular  basis.  Do  you  know  that  all  the  children, 
all  over  the  earth,  dearly  love  to  read  about  you, 
and  have,  for  more  than  a  century  past  ?  Yes, 
ever  since  brother  Hawthorne  served  up  your  ad- 
ventures for  them  in  that  delicious  old  volume, 
The  Tanglewood  Tales,  Bless  brother  Lamb,  for 
making  me  acquainted  with  it  ! 

Jas,  Indeed,  indeed  ?  I  am  delighted  to  hear 
it.  To  be  beloved  by  the  children  is  glory  enough 
for  any  ghost. 

RaL  But,  Jason,  we  have  no  time  to  spare. 

Jas.  Ah,  here  we  are  again,  at  the  office.  Do 
tell  me,  Walter ;  what  are  they  about  in  this 
large  room  adjoining  ?  What  signifies  that  com- 
plicated array  of  wires,  that  perpetual  click,  click, 
click,  and  those  long  strips  of  paper  ?  Some  new 
game  or  other,  no  doubt. 


106  JASON — RALEIGH. 

Eal.  Ha,  lia,  ha  1  Is  it  possible,  brother,  that 
you  are  not  acquainted  with  the  wonders  of  the 
magnetic  telegraph  ? 

Jas.  Not  I. 

Ral.  Well,  you'll  find  it  a  simple  matter 
enough.  Just  watch  the  operators  now,  for  a  mo- 
ment. Here  we  are  at  the  western  division.  Our 
friend  has  just  received  a  missive  from  Saratoga, 
which  the  clerk  is  transcribing.  Ah,  here  it  is,  in 
plain  English  :  ^^  Marvin  House,  July  9. — No 
rooms  for  three  weeks  to  come  ;  six  thousand 
turned  aivay  yesterday."  By  this  entry  in  the 
margin,  you  will  perceive  that  it  is  hardly  fifteen 
minutes  since  the  question  was  put,  to  which  this 
is  the  answer.  It  is  addressed,  you  notice,  to  B. 
FranTdin  Jones,  Esq.,  one  of  our  guests,  who  is 
evidently  anxious  to  know  when  and  how  he  can 
be  accommodated  at  the  great  watering-place, 

Jas.  Dio  mio  !     You  amaze  me. 

Ral.  Nothing  plainer,  Jason,  once  understood. 
Now  let's  look  over,  a  moment,  at  the  eastern  di- 
vision. Ah,  here's  a  despatch  from  Newport. 
What  says  it  .'^  "  Grand  Cosmopolitan  Fancy 
Ball.  First  Tuesday  in  September."  True, 
true  ;  I  remember  hearing  a  gay  party  discussing 
this  very  topic,  last  evening,  in  the  drawing-room. 


JASON RALEIGH.  107 

They  proposed  winding  up  their  summer  travels 
at  this  point,  but  did  not  know  the  precise  day 
fixed  for  the  grand  gathering.  This  is,  no  doubt, 
a  reply  to  some  query  of  theirs.  A  .great  conven- 
ience, is  it  not  ? 

Jas.  Wonderful,  wonderful ;  too  deep  for  me, 
though,  this  mystery,  I  confess. 

Bal.  I  will  make  a  point  of  explaining  it  to  you 
the  first  thing  to-morrow.  You  shall,  moreover, 
test  the  virtues  of  the  invention,  in  propria  persona. 
There  is  not  a  town  on  earth,  brother,  that  you 
cannot  confer  with,  through  these  same  wires.  So, 
if  you  want  to  drop  a  line  to  any  of  your  quondam 
friends  at  Colchis,  or  to  know  how  real  estate  is  sell- 
ing, at  your  old  Thessalian  homestead,  you  can  be 
accommodated,  without  even  wetting  your  sandals. 

Jas.  I  shall  not  fail  to  hold  you  to  your  pro- 
mise. But,  ah,  here's  another  superb  gallery  be- 
fore us.  Bless  me,  there  seems  no  end  to  the 
splendors,  or  resources  of  this  establishment :  fres- 
coed, too,  and  lined  all  the  way,  with  statues  ! 
Pray,  where  does  it  lead  to  ? 

Ral.  This  is  the  entrance  to  the  opera-house. 

Jas.  Indeed  ! 

Ral.  Yes,  we  have  a  capital  opera  here,  every 
evening  during  the  season  ;  alternately  in  French, 


108  JASON — RALEIGH, 

English,  German,  and  Italian  ;  the  four  dominant 
languages,  I  need  not  tell  you,  of  the  planet.  Let's 
see,  by  the  way,  what  the  affiche  says,  for  this 
evening.     Heavens  and  earth,  what  a  coincidence  ! 

Jas.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Ral.  Look  here,  Jason,  look  here. 

Jas.  Dio  mio,  the  Medea  !  This  is  extraordi- 
nary. I  can't  help  wishing  it  had  been  some  other 
piece,  though.  It  will  only  be  reviving  most  un- 
happy recollections. 

Bal.  And  yet,  brother,  the  music  is  altogether 
too  channing  for  us  to  lose,  and  the  cast  is  admi- 
rable. 

Jas.  Ah  ? 

Ral.  It  is,  indeed.  Your  all-accomplished  wife 
could  not  be  in  better  hands  :  a  most  superb-look- 
ing woman,  not  many  months  from  Milan  ;  with  a 
glorious  organ,  and  tragic  powers  of  the  very  high- 
est order.     You'll  be  charmed  with  her,  I'm  sure. 

Jas.  Who  murders  me,  I  wonder  ? 

Ral.  On  the  contrary,  you  will  be  very  fairly 
rendered.  The  ailist  is  young,  to  be  sure,  and  by 
no  means  as  good-looking  as  yourself;  but  his 
voice  is  a  very  rehable  one,  and  his  absorption  in 
his  part,  most  commendable.  'Tis  not  many  nights 
since  I  saw  him  in  New  York,  and  he  made  quite 


JASON— RALEIGH,  109 

a  hit,  eveu  before  that  most  fastidious  of  publics. 
The  scenery,  too,  is  admirably  painted,  while  the 
choruses  would  have  done  honor  to  Athens,  in  her 
best  days.  So  you  must  consider  yourself  booked 
for  to-night. 

Jas.  As  you  say,  brother. 

Ral.  This  other  gallery  to  the  right,  you  see, 
is  very  different  in  its  decorations  and  general 
effect.  That,  Jason,  leads  to  our  beautiful  chapel. 
We  have  only  time  to  look  in  at  the  portal,  a  mo- 
ment. 

Jas.  What  exquisite  windows  ! 

Ral.  Yes,  you'll  find  no  finer  stained  glass  on 
earth.  The  subjects,  too,  are  vastly  admired  ; 
being  illustrations  of  the  Parables.  That  directly 
opposite,  is  considered  the  masterpiece  here  ;  the 
Prodigal  Son. 

Jas.  It  needs  no  interpreter,  certainly.  Charm- 
ing, charming  1 

Bal.  They  are  all  well  worth  studying.  That 
group  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  under  the 
Prodigal  Son,  is  the  work,  I  am  told,  of  a  New 
England  artist,  who,  though  still  young,  threatens 
to  eclipse  all  the  American  sculptors  of  the  day, 
and  even  those  of  the  19  th  century,  brilliant  con- 
stellation that  they  were.     You  will  be  charmed, 


110  JASON — RALEIGH. 

Jason,  to  hear  divine  service  here,  and  with  the 
discourses  of  the  officiating  priest.  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  an  introduction  to  him,  since  my  arri- 
val, and  have  found  him  one  of  the  most  unaffected, 
hearty,  cheerful  persons  I  ever  met.  He  gave  us 
a  capital  sermon  last  Sunday  ;  not  a  particle  of 
bigotry,  or  sectarianism,  in  any  corner  of  it  ;  hut 
full  of  broad,  liberal,  comprehensive  views,  lucidly 
stated,  and  judiciously  embellished  with  imagery, 
admirably  according  with  the  beautiful  creations 
of  art  around  us.  Some  few  of  his  hearers,  evident- 
ly disliked  his  dwelling  so  little  on  the  more  subtle 
and  mysterious  parts  of  Christianity  ;  but  I  confess, 
I  liked  him  all  the  better  for  it,  and  for  not  pre- 
suming to  fathom  secrets  quite  beyond  the  depth, 
even  of  us  spirits. 

Jas.  He  showed  his  sense,  certainly.  The  cha- 
pel itself  is  good  enough  sermon  for  me.  It  grows 
more  and  more  beautiful  every  moment.  Two 
days,  indeed  !  Why,  it  would  take  at  least  two 
weeks,  Walter,  to  have  any  idea  of  the  attractions 
of  this  spot. 

Ral.  Well,  why  not  make  a  fortnight  of  it  ? 
Come,  that's  a  good  ghost.  I  shall  be  delighted, 
as  I  said  before,  to  be  your  Cicerone.  After  that, 
we'll  take  a  look  at  some  of  the  other  famous  old 


JASON RALEIGH.  Ill 

watering'places  of  these  regions  ;  the  classic  Na- 
hant,  the  luxurious  Newport,  the  stately  Rockaway, 
the  romantic  Sharon,  the  many-colored  Saratoga. 
And  then,  there  are  some  glorious  cascades  and 
cataracts  that  I  want  you  to  see  ;  to  say  nothing 
of  the  lions  of  the  great  Metropolis.  But,  above 
all,  Jason,  there  is  another  view  from  a  mountain 
to  the  north-east  of  us,  that  you  must  not  leave 
America,  without  beholding  ;  and  compared  with 
which,  even  the  sublime  picture  beneath  us  is 
tame. 

Jas.  Impossible. 

Ral.  You'll  find  it  so,  depend  upon  it.  The 
hand  of  man  is  not  so  prominent  in  it,  certainly  ; 
nor  are  its  details  so  minutely  finished  ;  but  for 
extent,  variety,  and  grandeur,  there  is  no  compari- 
son. 

Jas.  What  mountain  do  you  refer  to  ? 

Ral.  The  old  king  of  the  White  Hills,  to  be 
sure  ;  towering  above  them,  as  its  illustrious  name- 
sake towers  above  all  other  heroes.  But,  by  George, 
we  have  only  a  minute  left  to  make  our  little  ar- 
rangements for  dinner.  By  the  way,  what  is  the 
number  of  your  room  ? 

Jas.  Nine  hundred  and  eighty-seven,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken. 


lis  JASON — RALEIGH. 

Eal.  All,  right  in  my  neighborhood.  Very 
well,  brother  ;  I  will  stop  at  your  door,  on  our  way 
down. 

T^nsi.  I  shall  depend  upon  you.  [Exeunt. 


TACITUS— GIBBON. 

[SCENE— THE  PALATINE.] 

Tac.  Here  we  are,  at  last.  I  am  a  little  weary, 
I  confess,  after  our  journey.  Come,  brother,  let's 
repose  awhile  on  this  bit  of  column. 

Gih.  Eight  willingly  ;  I  am  quite  out  of  breath 
myself.  {After  a^jawse.)  I  hope,  Tacitus,  I  have 
not  tasked  your  kindness  too  far,  in  this  necessarily 
painful  visit. 

Tac.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  To  be  candid, 
though,  I  should  have  preferred  remaining  where 
we  were.  I  marvel  somewhat  at  your  taste,  I 
must  say,  in  turning  your  back  thus  abruptly  as 
you  did,  upon  the  splendors  of  your  own  royal 
London,  and  coming  hither  to  mope  and  muse  over 
our  poor  shattered  Kome.  Ah  dear,  dear,  what  a 
picture,  what  a  picture  !  Never  did  it  seem  so 
desolate  to  me  as  now.  And  to  leave  such  agree- 
able company,  too,  as  brother  Macaulay's  !     What 


114  TACITUS — GIBBON. 

must  he  have  thought  ?  How  surprised  he  was  to 
see  us,  by  the  way. 

Gih.  Yes  ;  two  such  apparitions  at  once,  quite 
overwhehiied  him  for  a  moment.  He  seemed  ra- 
ther more  glad  though  to  see  you  than  me,  I 
thought. 

Tac.  Oh,  no. 

Gib.  So  it  struck  me.  I  have  heard,  besides, 
that  he  has  spoken  pretty  freely  of  me,  in  his 
essays.  A  capital  fellow,  though,  for  all  that,  and 
a  most  fascinating  talker.  I  was  quite  gratified 
to  find  him  at  his  post,  note-book  in  hand,  toiling 
away  for  the  benefit  of  posterity.  He  looked  some- 
what careworn,  however,  and  if  he  is  not  cautious, 
will  become  an  immortal  before  his  time. 

Tac.  I  am  selfish  enough  to  wish  that  he  were 
with  us  already.  I  was  really  vexed  to  see  so 
little  of  him.  Why,  do  you  know,  brother,  that 
he  was  on  the  very  point  of  proposing  a  stroll 
through  Hyde  Park,  when  you  took  wing  so  un- 
ceremoniously ?  What  a  day,  too,  we  should  have 
had  for  the  promenade  !  How  different  from  this 
dreary,  melancholy  scene  ! 

Gih.  Why,  really,  brother,  I  am  very  sorry 
that — 

Tac.  No  apologies,  no  apologies.      Come  you 


TACITUS GIBBON.  115 

would,  and  here  we  are.  Welcome,  right  welcome 
to  the  palace  of  the  Cfiesars !  Right  sorry  am  I, 
that  we  have  no  better  accommodations  to  ofler  you. 
Had  you  looked  in  some  seventeen  centuries  ago, 
I  could  have  made  you  as  comfortable  as  ghost  or 
mortal  could  desire  ;  and  could  have  shown  you, 
too,  some  friends  and  sights,  worthy  the  eye  of  an 
historian. 

Gib.  You  are  very  polite,  brother. 

Tac.  Nay  more,  I  could  have  ensured  you  a 
most  cordial  reception  at  the  hands  of  our  beloved 
Emperor,  and  a  delicious  dish  of  chat  at  his  hospi- 
table board.  Need  I  add,  Edward,  how  delighted 
I  should  have  been,  to  have  shown  you  through 
the  halls  of  our  glorious  library,  or  how  proud  I 
should  have  been  to  have  presented  you  to  the 
members  of  our  Historical  Society. 

Gib.  Really,  Cornelius,  you  quite  overpower 
me.  And  so  you  had  a  Historical  Society  in 
Rome,  in  your  day  ? 

Tac.  We  had,  indeed,  and  a  right  famous  one  ; 
as  splendid  a  body  of  savans,  though  I  say  it,  as 
ever  came  together.  Yes,  and  this  very  sj^ot 
was  the  scene  of  our  meetings  ;  this  identical  cab- 
bage-garden. It  was  only  two  days  before  I  left 
the  flesh,  that  our  third  Centennial  Anniversary  was 


116  TACITUS — GIBBON. 

celebrated  here  ;  with  great  splendor,  too ;  Trajan 
himself  presiding.  Never,  through  all  eternity, 
shall  I  forget  the  glorious  speech  my  dear  Pliny 
made  on  the.  occasion.  Poor  fellow  !  he  little 
thought  we  were  so  soon  to  separate  ;  'twas  but 
a  brief  parting,  however.  His  health  had  been 
failing,  indeed,  for  some  time.  What  with  that, 
and  the  shock  which  my  death  occasioned  him,  it 
was  but  a  little  week  ere  we  met  again  in  spirit 
land. 

Gih.  He  did  not  live,  then,  to  pronounce  your 
funeral  oration  ? 

Tac.  No ;  that  service  was  rendered  by  my 
worthy  friend,  Pastihus  ;  between  ourselves,  not 
a  very  remarkable  performance.  You  never  heard 
of  it,  of  course. 

Gib.  Never,  I  have  often  regretted,  however, 
the  non-existence  of  your  portrait,  as  painted  by 
your  illustrious  brother  orator.  Such  a  discourse 
would  unquestionably  have  been  far  more  brilliant 
and  able,  than  the  Panegyric  itself ;  and  would, 
moreover,  my  dear  friend,  have  given  us  a  world 
of  details  about  yourself,  which  we  moderns  are 
sadly  in  want  of 

Tac.  Very  kindly  spoken,  brother. 

€fih.  I  mean  what  I  say.     Had  such  an  oration 


TACITUS — GIBBON.  117 

actually  been  delivered,  and  were  it  to  see  the 
light  to-day,  the  discovery  would  create  a  thrill  of 
delight  throughout  the  whole  literary  world. 

Tac.  Truly? 

Gib.  It  would,  indeed,  I  know  of  but  one 
other,  that  would  cause  a  more  profound  sensa- 
tion. 

Tae.  And  that — 

Gib.  I  need  not  say,  would  be  the  recovery  of 
the  lost  parts  of  your  own  glorious  history.  You 
smile,  but  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  I  have 
told  you  so.  Besides,  brother,  we  are  not  without 
precedents  on  this  point.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do,  the  enthusiasm  with  which  some  of  the  missing 
books  of  your  annals  were  received,  three  centuries 
ago.  Thanks  to  the  munificent  offers  of  Pope 
Leo,  both  in  the  way  of  ducats  and  indulgences  ! 
His  present  Holiness,  I  fear,  has  neither  the  purse 
nor  the  spirit,  to  institute  another  such  a  search  ; 
and  if  he  did,  it  would,  most  probably,  prove  a 
fruitless  one. 

Tac.  I  had  quite  forgotten  the  circumstance, 
I  assure  you.  I  do  remember,  though,  having 
been  told  of  the  extraordinary  pains  taken  by  my 
Imperial  namesake,  to  preserve  my  writings,  and 
to  secure  me  a  fair  hearing  with  posterity  ;  and 


118  TACITUS — GIBBON. 

of  the  very  partial  success,  as  it  has  since  turned 
outj  which  attended  his  efforts.  Ah,  brother,  you 
are  far  more  fortunate  than  I  in  this  respect. 
Your  master-piece  is  sure  to  descend  safe  and 
sound,  unshorn  of  a  single  ray  of  its  splendor, 
even  to  the  last  day  of  earth ;  while,  of  the  six 
and  thirty  books  of  my  history,  the  fruit  of  years 
of  thought  and  research,  in  which  I  feel  that  my 
strongest  and  most  characteristic  passages  were 
contained,  poor  four  alone  survive  !  Well,  well, 
I  must  not  be  envious.  And  yet,  I  can't  helj) 
regretting  that  my  tribute  to  the  glorious  Titus, 
coming  warm  as  it  did  from  my  heart,  could  not 
have  been  spared.  The  best  thing  I  ever  did, 
Gibbon  ;  unless,  perhaps,  it  was  the  portrait  of 
the  infamous  Domitian. 

Gih.  By  the  way,  speaking  of  Domitian,  will 
you  allow  me  to  ask  you  a  question,  which  I 
never  before  ventured  to  ?  Somewhat  personal,  I 
confess. 

Tac.  By  all  means  ;  what  is  it  ? 

Gib.  How  did  you  manage  to  keep  your  head 
upon  your  shoulders,  during  the  reign  of  that 
monster  ?  To  be  candid  with  you,  I  have  heard 
it  insinuated  in  certain  quarters  that  it  was  only 


TACITUS — GIBBON.  119 

by  virtue  of  unworthy  compliances,  and  at  the 
cost  of  your  own  self-respect. 

Tac.  How's  that  .^     How's  that  ? 

Gib.  Don't  frown,  now,  my  dear  friend.  Be 
assured  that  I  treated  the  insinuation  with  the 
same  scorn  as  yourself;  still  I  confess  it  would 
gratify  me  to  hear  some  little  explanation  on  this 
point,  from  your  own  lips.  'Twas  but  the  other 
day,  indeed,  that  one  of  these  same  critics,  a  ghost 
that  shall  be  nameless  (a  keen  searcher  of  hearts, 
too,  in  his  way),  asked  me  this  veiy  question,  with 
a  look  and  tone  full  of  sarcasm  ;  '  How  is  it,'  said 
he,  'that  this  same  Tacitus,  this  moral  historian, 
as  he  has  always  styled  himself,  this  unsparing 
censor  of  wickedness,  should  yet  have  been  thus 
hand  and  glove  with  that  monster  of  infamy,  Do- 
mitian  ?  Should  have  taken  office  under  him, 
have  reclined  at  his  table,  have  capped  verses  with 
him,  nay  more,  should  have  inscribed  to  him  a 
book  of  Facetice  ?  A  pretty,  time  to  be  jesting, 
truly,  when  the  best  men  of  Rome  were  daily 
perishing  by  the  daggers  and  poison  of  his  as- 
sassins, or  condemned  to  hopeless  banishment  ! ' 
Feeling  the  utter  falsehood  of  the  charge  thus  im- 
plied, I  yet  could  not  reply  to  it  as  I  would  have 
wished.  How  is  this,  ray  dear  friend  ?  Do  ex- 
plain it. 


120  TACITUS — GIBBON. 

Tac.  With  all  my  heart.  I  thiuk  I  could 
name  the  ghost  you  refer  to.  His  accusation  is 
certainly  a  specious  one,  and  not  without  many 
grains  of  truth.  I  did,  indeed,  take  office  under 
Domitian,  was  frequently  his  guest,  sent  him  my 
verses  (such  as  they  were),  and  set  some  of  his  own 
to  music  ;  I  also,  at  his  urgent  request,  revised  that 
truly  sprightly  and  elegant  Httle  work  of  his,  on 
the  subject  of  baldness.  You  have  heard  of  it,  I 
dare  say. 

Gih.  I  have  ;  it  is  not  extant,  however. 

Tac.  You  would  have  been  charmed  with  it,  I 
am  sure.  I  could  mention  many  other  little  acts 
of  courtesy  that  passed  between  us.  I  might  have 
pursued  a  very  different  course,  certainly  ;  and,  as 
you  say,  have  had  my  head  chopped  off,  for  my 
pains.  In  that  event,  brother,  you  would  have 
been  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  reading  those 
writings  of  which  you  have  spoken  so  kindly,  and 
I  of  the  privilege  of  rendering,  in  after  years,  those 
services  to  Kome,  on  which  I  look  back,  even  now, 
with  honest  exultation.  The  simple  truth  of  the 
matter  is  this.  I  was  guided  in  my  conduct  on 
this  occasion,  by  the  advice  of  that  best  of  men, 
my  ever-to-be-revered  father-in-law.  He  saw  at 
once,  the  madness   of  an  open  rupture  with  one, 


TACITUS GIBBON.  121 

as  al]-})o\verf'ul  us  lie  was  imperious  and  cruel,  and 
so  counselled  prudence  and  moderation.  He  saw 
also,  equally  with  myself,  the  unquestionable  lite- 
rary talents  of  the  Emperor,  and  his  fondness  for 
the  arts  ;  qualities  which  we  both  did  our  best  to 
encourage  and  develope,  in  hopes  that  they  might 
at  least  restrain,  if  not  get  the  better  of,  those 
bloodthirsty  propensities  and  fierce  appetites,  that 
he  was  cursed  with  ;  expectations,  indeed,  most 
visionary,  as  it  afterwards  appeared.  Still,  these 
considerations,  deriving  fresh  force,  as  they  did. 
from  our  most  heartfelt  respect  and  gratitude 
towards  his  father,  Vespasian,  impelled  us  to  a 
conciliatory  course.  I  may  as  well  acknowledge, 
too,  that  in  common  with  the  rest  of  Eome,  I  was 
for  some  time  puzzled  to  find  out  the  true  charac- 
ter of  Domitian.  With  all  my  fancied  acuteness, 
and  insight  into  motives,  there  was  a  plausibility 
and  subtlety  about  the  man,  at  times,  that  quite 
baffled  all  my  conjectures  ;  a  master-dissembler, 
truly,  and  worthy  of  the  great  teacher  whom  he 
afterwards  openly  avowed  as  his  model.  But 
when  the  mask  was  thrown  off"  at  last  ;  when 
daily  acts  of  treachery  and  murder  proclaimed  the 
monster  in  his  true  colors  ;  when,  finally,  the  death 


122  TACITUS GIBBON. 

of  Agricola  himself  was,  with  too  much  reason, 
laid  at  the  doors  of  his  emissaries  ;  from  that  mo- 
ment I  renounced  my  allegiance  to  the  wretch,  nor 
ever  after  exchanged  word  or  look  with  him  ;  I 
resolved  straightway  to  leave  a  scene  frauglit  with 
such  sad  memories,  and  such  peril  to  myself,  and 
to  those  I  loved.  This  resolution  was  strength- 
ened by  the  earnest  entreaties  of  my  dear  friend 
Pliny,  and  of  Pfetilius  ;  and  stiU  more  by  letters 
which  I  received  from  the  illustrious  Virginius, 
then  in  Gaul,  and  who,  it  seems,  had  long  sus- 
pected the  hostile  feelings  of  Domitian  towards 
our  family.  The  precarious  condition,  too,  of  my 
beloved  wife's  health,  imperatively  called  for  a 
change  of  residence.  In  a  word,  I  was  only  deba- 
ting which  way  to  bend  my  steps,  when,  what 
should  I  receive,  at  this  very  juncture,  but  a  most 
kind  and  flattering  invitation  from  my  Alma 
Mater,  the  University  of  Massilia,  to  come  and 
fill  the  then  vacant  Professorship  of  Roman  lite- 
rature. Nothing  could  have  been  more  opportune, 
or  agreeable  to  me.  I  at  once  accepted  the  offer, 
and  remained  four  years  in  that  city,  in  the  dis- 
charge of  my  professional  duties,  and  at  the  same 
time  continuing  my  studies,  with  a  view  to  long- 
cherished  historical  labors.    I  need  not  tell  vou  what 


TACITUS GIBBON.  123 

occurred  at  Rome  during  this  period,  nor  how  the 
repeated  atrocities  of  Domitian,  like  those  of  his 
predecessors,  led  to  that  conspiracy  wliich  at 
length  rid  the  world  of  the  monster.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do,  how  glorious,  but  short-lived,  was 
the  reign  of  his  successor  ;  what  happy,  ])rosper- 
ous  times  we  had  under  the  beloved  Trajan  ;  and 
how  many  long  years  of  peaceful,  productive  labor, 
alike  as  scholar  and  as  statesman,  the  Gods  vouch- 
safed to  me  ;  and  I  will  not  dwell  longer  upon 
them.  As  to  that  same  book  of  Facetice,  to  which 
you  alluded,  allow  me,  for  the  ten  thousandth 
time,  to  disavow  all  connection  with  it.  I  confess 
I  have  felt  hurt,  at  times,  that  my  name  should 
have  ever  been  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with 
that  most  obscene  and  stupid  production.  But 
no  more  on  that  head.  And  now,  brother,  are  you 
satisfied  ? 

Gib.  Perfectly,  perfectly  ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  me  for  having  introduced  this  subject. 

Tac.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  quite  gratified  to 
find  you  so  much  interested  in  the  vindication  of 
my  integrity. 

Gib.  To  change  the  theme,  however,  and  to 
revert,  for  a  moment,  to  that  same  Palatine 
Library,   of  which  you  were  speaking,  and  about 


124  TACITUS GIBBON. 

which  I  have  often  intended  asking  you.  I  con- 
fess to  a  good  deal  of  curiosity  on  this  point.  Do 
tell  me  ;  is  it  possible  that  it  occupied  the  very 
spot  where  we  are  now  sitting  ?  Is  this  silent, 
woe-begone,  weed-encumbered  place,  the  sole  rep- 
resentative of  all  its  glories  ? 

Tac.  Even  so,  even  so  ;  not  more  desolate, 
though,  than  all  else  here. 

Gib.  Was  it,  indeed,  so  magnificent  as  they 
say.? 

Tac.  A  most  princely  structure  ;  but  is  it 
possible  that  there  is  no  picture  or  description  of 
it  extant  ?  I  speak  not  of  the  original  temple,  of 
course,  but  of  that  which  Domitian  reared,  with 
four- fold  splendor,  on  its  ashes.  I  myself,  I  re- 
member, had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  it,  in  my 
history. 

Gib.  That  account,  alas,  has  not  descended  to 
us.  All  I  have  ever  seen  about  it,  are  some  very 
unsatisfactory  notices  by  Suetonius,  in  his  usual 
off-hand  Gazetteer  fashion,  an  allusion  or  two  in 
Ovid  and  Propertius,  and  some  few  vague  state- 
ments, by  our  long-bow-drawing  friend,  the  Na- 
turalist ;  these,  and  an  occasional  restoration  of 
it,  by  some  visionary  artist.  What  was  the  style 
of   its    architecture  ?      How   many    volumes    had 


TACITUS GIBBON.  125 

you,  and  in  what  department  were  you  strongest  ? 
Who  was  the  favorite  author  of  Korue,  at  the 
time  you  were  consulting  its  alcoves  ?  Have  the 
goodness,  brother,  to  enlighten  me  a  little  on  these 
points. 

Tac.  Most  cheerfully.  The  temple,  of  which 
our  Library  formed  a  part,  was  of  the  finest  white 
marble  ;  its  portico,  as  superb  a  specimen  of  the 
Corinthian  order  as  I  ever  beheld  ;  fully  equal,  I 
think,  to  that  of  the  Pantheon.  The  shrine,  itself, 
was  mainly  remarkable  for  a  lofty  dome,  inlaid 
with  gold,  beneath  which  stood  a  colossal  Apollo, 
exquisitely  wrought  in  bronze  ;  and  for  its  beau- 
tiful eastern  portal,  the  bas-rehefs  of  which  were 
the  admiration  of  all  Rome.  Both  they  and  the 
statue  were  the  work  of  the  same  artist,  the 
famous  Hermodorus,  of  Corinth.  The  apartments 
reserved  for  the  Library,  consisted  of  two  magni- 
ficent halls,  parallel  to  each  other,  joined  at  each 
end  by  sijacious  corridors,  and  completely  sur- 
rounded by  alcoves.  They  were  supported  by 
lofty  columns  of  the  yellow  marble  of  Numidia, 
with  white  capitals,  of  fine  workmanship.  These 
served  to  sustain  a  regular  series  of  domes,  with 
apertures  for  the  admission  of  light.  The  inte- 
riors of  these  domes  were  adorned  with  frescoes  by 


126  TACITUS — GIBBON. 

our  first  artists,  and  illustrative  of  the  history  of 
the  Empire,  from  its  foundation.  Conspicuous 
among  them,  and  admirably  executed,  was  that 
portraying  the  battle  of  Actium,  in  which  our 
second  Emperor  won  such  laurels  ;  in  consequence 
of  which  victory,  I  need  not  tell  you,  he  erected 
the  original  temple  here.  All  these  frescoes,  how- 
ever, were  fine  specimens  of  art.  Beneath  each 
dome  was  a  circular  mosaic,  protected  by  a  rich 
railing  of  bronze.  The  subjects  were  mainly  co- 
pies of  the  most  notable  of  our  temples  and 
palaces.  The  pavement  was  of  black  and  white 
marble.  Between  each  pair  of  columns,  reared 
upon  an  appropriate  pedestal,  stood  the  statue  of 
some  illustrious  conqueror  in  the  fields  of  Greek  or 
Roman  letters  ;  a  splendid  collection,  which  I  will 
not  presume  to  enumerate,  much  less  describe. 
Those,  I  remember,  that  I  used  to  be  fondest 
of  looking  at,  were  Homer  and  Pindar,  and  above 
all,  a  very  famous  statue  of  our  own  Lucretius. 
There  was  a  sad,  grand  expression  about  it,  that 
was  strangely  fascinating  to  me.  At  either  end 
of  each  of  these  spacious  halls  was  a  fountain  of 
simple  but  elegant  design  ;  with  no  great  volume 
of  water,  however  ;  just  enough  to  create  a  plea- 
sant   murmur,   and   agreeable    accompaniment   to 


TACITUS GIBBON.  127 

the  meditations  or  studies  of  those  present.  Our 
hours  were  regulated  by  the  movements  of  a 
quaint  old  water  clock,  whose  silver  thread  had 
glistened  two  centuries  before,  in  the  studio  of  our 
immortal  Tully. 

Gib.  Pleasant  quarters  these,  truly. 

Tac.  As  to  the  number  of  our  volumes,  which 
you  were  asking  about,  there  were  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand,  if  I  remember  rightly  ; 
a  small  collection  compared  with  that  of  Alexan- 
dria ;  and  of  these,  many  were  afterwards  removed 
to  grace  the  shelves  of  the  Ulpian,  the  most  fre- 
quented library  in  Rome,  during  the  latter  part 
of  my  life  ;  though  its  appointments  were  by  no 
means  so  sumptuous  as  those  of  the  Palatine. 

Gib.  You  had  but  little  Oriental  literature,  I 
believe,  in  your  collection. 

Tac.  Hardly  worth  speaking  of;  some  few 
Indian  and  Persian  manuscripts,  and  a  fair  pro- 
portion of  Egyptian.  I  was  about  to  remark, 
that  our  alcoves  were  almost  entirely  dedicated  to 
Greek  and  Eoman  works.  In  the  department  of 
Greek  philosophy,  and,  above  all,  of  Greek  poetry, 
we  were  most  richly  endowed.  We  had  at  least 
fifty  sets  of  Homer,  I  remember,  in  all  styles  of 
embellishment  ;    one,  the  object   of   our  especial 


128  TACITUS GIBBON. 

veneration,  had  originally  belonged  to  the  divine 
Sophocles,  and  was  enriched  with  marginal  notes 
in  his  own  handwriting.  Of  Sophocles  himself, 
we  had  many  superb  editions.  One  of  onr  great- 
est treasures  was  a  complete  and  beautifully  copied 
Plato  ;  the  only  really  satisfactory  one  I  ever  saw, 
and  a  gift  to  the  library  from  our  dear  Pliny. 
But  I  cannot  begin,  brother,  to  tell  you  of  all  oui* 
valuables  and  curiosities.  We  had,  moreover,  a 
very  famous  collection  of  maps,  to  say  nothing  of 
our  coins  and  medals,  all  of  which  I  had  manifold 
occasion  to  consult,  while  pursuing  my  historical 
researches.  To  your  other  inquiry  as  to  who  was 
the  favorite  author  of  Kome,  in  my  day,  I  answer 
unhesitatingly,  Seneca.  At  the  time  of  my  death, 
there  were  no  less  than  three  shops  in  the  Argi- 
letum,  almost  exclusively  employed  in  furnishing 
transcripts  of  his  writings. 

Gib.  Indeed  ! 

Tac.  Yes ;  so  steady  was  the  demand  for  them. 
Next  to  him  came  Martial.  He,  too,  kept  the 
scribes  very  busy. 

Gib.  Not  more  so  than  Virgil,  surely. 

Tac.  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  Virgil  was  far  more 
eulogized  than  read,  in  my  day.  To  our  shame  be 
it  spoken  ;    almost  all   the  great   masters  of  the 


TACITUS — GIBBON.  129 

Augustan  age,  were  comparatively  neglected  by 
us.  I  speak  the  more  freely,  having  been  myself 
led  astray  by  the  false  taste  that  prevailed.  While 
we  were  all  crazy  after  the  showy  sentimentalities 
of  our  pseudo-philosopher,  and  the  filthy  epigrams 
of  our  time-serving  poet,  Horace  himself  was  suf- 
fered to  slumber  on  the  shelves,  while  the  dust 
was  an  inch  thick  over  poor  Lucretius.  Ovid,  to 
be  sure,  was  more  thumbed  by  us,  especially  the 
Art  of  Love,  with  its  pernicious  passages.  I  con- 
fess, I  look  back,  with  wonder,  on  this  perversion. 
The  idea  of  comparing  Seneca  with  Cicero,  for- 
sooth 1  And  yet,  for  every  copy  of  the  Amicitia 
that  was  sold  in  my  time^  there  were  at  least  a 
hundred  of  the  Consolatione, 

Gib.  But,  Cornelius,  if  I  err  not,  you  have 
yourself  left  on  record  a  very  glowing  eulogium 
on  brother  Seneca,  in  your  famous  dialogue  about 
orators.     Is  it  not  so  ? 

Tac.  True,  true  ;  I  plead  guilty.  Had  I  that 
passage  to  write  over,  I  should  alter  it  materially. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  though,  I  was  speaking 
rather  of  the  writer,  and  the  speaker,  than  of  the 
man  •  for  I  never  had  much  opinion  of  his  moral 
character.  I  confess,  moreover,  that  this  mis- 
placed admiration  had  a  bad  effect  on  my  own 
6* 


130  TACITUS — GIBBOK. 

style,  wherein  I  have  quite  too  often  sacrificed 
clearness  to  brevity,  truth  to  antithesis. 

Gib.  Oh  no,  no  ;  your  severest  critic  would 
hardly  say  that.  You  have  puzzled  the  commen- 
tators, though,  at  times,  confoundedly. 

Tac,  But,  brother,  I  am  doing  all  the  talking, 
here. 

Gib,  Not  at  all,  not  at  all ;  go  on  with  your 
reminiscences.  You  were  speaking  of  the  Historical 
Society.  Am  I  to  understand  that  they  held  their 
meetings  in  the  sumptuous  halls  that  you  have 
just  described  .'' 

Tac>  No  ;  but  in  an  apartment  communicating 
with  them  ;  a  noble  room,  erected  by  Trajan  ex- 
pressly for  their  accommodation.  Before  that  time, 
our  chambers  were  on  Mount  Aventine,  not  far 
from  Pollio's  library.  Our  new  quarters  were  every 
way  worthy,  both  of  the  donor  and  of  the  temple 
to  which  they  were  annexed.  Our  great  hall  of 
conference  was  a  princely  affair  ;  it  was  worth  a 
journey  to  Rome,  to  see  the  magnificent  bas-reliefs 
that  surrounded  its  walls. 

Gib.  Ah  !  what  may  the  subjects  have  been  ? 

Tac.  They  illustrated  prominent  events  in  the 
lives  of  our  historians.  The  series  commenced 
with  Herodotus  reciting  his  works  at  the  Olympic 


TACITUS — GIBBON.  131 

Games,  and  ended  with  your  humble  servant  pro- 
nouncing his  funeral  discourse  over  the  great  Vir- 
ginius  Rufus.  This  compliment,  brother,  I  assure 
you,  was  most  gratifying  to  me.  In  niches  above 
the  sculptures  were  busts  of  the  writers  thus  com- 
memorated. Behind  the  chair  of  the  President, 
was  a  statue  of  Thucydides,  a  copy  of  the  famous 
one  in  the  library  of  Pisistratus,  at  Athens  ;  and 
another  of  Cato  the  Elder,  the  founder  of  our 
Society.  Ah,  how  vividly  can  I  recall  the  scene 
here,  when  I  was  last  present  in  the  body  !  I 
mean  the  anniversary  that  I  was  telling  you  about, 
on  occasion  of  the  completion  of  our  third  cen- 
tury. The  princely  hall  itself ;  the  beautiful  per- 
spective formed  by  the  receding  domes  and  columns 
of  the  library,  as  seen  through  the  portal ;  the 
faint  murmurs  of  the  fountains ;  the  imposing 
group  of  noble  and  learned  men,  enlivened  as  it 
was,  on  this  occasion,  by  the  presence  of  some  of 
the  lovehest  women  of  Eome  ;  the  laurel-crowned 
busts  and  statues  around  ;  the  blended  grace  and 
dignity  with  which  the  Emperor  presided  ;  the 
solemn  invocation  to  the  Gods,  so  impressively 
given  by  the  arch-flam  en  ;  and  to  crown  all,  the 
inimitably  brilliant  discourse  of  brother  Pliny, 
delivered  as  no  other  in  Rome  could  deliver  it  ; 


132  TACITUS — GIBBON. 

altogether,  it  was  one  of  the  grandest  pictures  I 
ever  beheld, 

Oib.  It  must  have  been  a  magnificent  celebra- 
tion, indeed  ! 

Tac.  {After  a  pause.)  And  this  is  the  con- 
summation of  it  all,  this  miserable  aggregation  of 
rubbish  1     Well,  well,  well  1 

Gib,  What  was  the  subject  of  the  discourse, 
brother  ?  Perhaps  some  parts  of  it  may  yet  live 
in  your  memory. 

Tac.  Oh,  no,  no  ;  its  outlines  and  general 
spirit,  however,  I  remember  distinctly.  We  were 
expecting  something  quite  different  ;  to  wit,  a 
history  of  the  Society  itself,  with  portraits  of  some 
of  its  more  •  illustrious  members,  which,  perhaps, 
would  have  been  more  appropriate  ;  but  we  had, 
instead,  a  theme  far  broader  and  more  philoso- 
phical. He  began  by  defining  the  nature  and 
uses  of  history.  He  then  dwelt  upon  the  qualifi- 
cations of  the  historian ;  insisting,  with  great 
power,  on  a  high  moral  tone,  as  the  all-essential 
attribute  ;  he  then  portrayed,  briefly  but  graphi- 
cally, the  leading  features  of  the  great  historical 
masters.  From  this  he  glided  gracefully  into  a 
review  of  the  progress  of  events  since  the  acces- 
sion of  Trajan,  whose  administration  he  set  forth, 


TACITUS—GIBBON,  133 

not  in  the  frigid  metaphors  of  court-adulation,  but 
in  the  glowing  words  of  true  enthusiasm.  Never 
were  his  Oriental  triumphs,  his  wise  laws,  his  in- 
numerable benefactions  to  art  and  letters,  more 
happily  described.  '  First  in  war,  first  in  peace, 
first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen.'  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  tone  and  manner  in  which  these 
words  were  uttered,  or  the  modest  way  in  which 
the  Emperor  received  them.  Just  before  the 
peroration,  the  discourse  took  a  more  practical 
turn  ;  abounding  (so  we  then  thought)  in  ingeni- 
ous and  valuable  suggestions  relating  to  the  more 
facile  multiplication  of  maps,  medals,  and  records, 
and  their  more  perfect  preservation.  Preservation, 
forsooth  !  A  precious  commentary  upon  them,  is 
it  not,  brother,  this  scene  of  ruin  !  Ah  dear,  to 
think  that  I  should  have  ever  beheld  a  spectacle 
like  this  ;  should  have  seen  the  very  chamber  where 
these  glowing  periods  were  delivered,  a  place  to 
gather  potherbs  in ;  have  seen  sheep  scattered 
over  the  halls  of  these  golden  palaces  ;  and  the  all- 
glorious  Forum  itself,  a  rendezvous  for  swineherds  ! 
Gib.  It  is  most  strange,  certainly,  that  there 
should  be  so  few  evidences  of  those  proud  days 
around  us.  But,  between  ourselves,  brother,  I 
don't  think  that  there  has  ever  been  a  bona  fide, 


134  TACITUS — GIBBON. 

persevering  searcli  made  for  them.  Thanks  to  the 
miserable  bigots  who  misgovern  Rome  !  They 
will  squander  their  thousands,  at  any  moment,  on 
some  idle  church  mummery,  or  some  miracle- 
working  Madonna,  or  crucifix,  but  have  not  heart 
or  pride  enough  to  explore  the  footsteps  of  their 
forefathers.  Who  knows  what  precious  memorials 
of  the  days  you  flourished  in,  may  even  now  be 
slumbering  beneath  this  vciy  column  on  which  we 
are  sitting  ?  May  not  that  very  oration  itself, 
which  you  so  warmly  eulogize,  be  among  them, 
quietly  waiting  the  coming  of  some  sagacious  an- 
tiquary ?  Will  it  not  again  see  the  light  of  day  ? 
Will  it  not  again  be  read  to  the  delight  of  bril- 
liant audiences  ?  Will  it  not,  who  knows,  become 
a  text-book  in  the  Universities  of  future  ages  ? 

Tac.  I  hope  so,  indeed,  for  dear  Pliny's  sake. 
I  do  not  know  a  spirit  more  worthy  of  such  honors, 
or  Avho  would  be  more  gratified  at  receiving  them. 
But,  bless  me,  how  the  wind  howls  through  yonder 
cypresses  !  That  black  cloud,  too,  rising  in  the 
west ;  brother,  there  is  a  storm  brewing,  evidently. 
Come,  let  us  leave  this  forlorn  spot  for  quarters 
more  genial.  We  have  not  much  time  to  spare, 
by  the  way.     I  must  not  break  ray  appointment. 

Gib.  Appointment  ? 


TACITUS — GIBBON.  135 

Tac.  Yes  ;  I  thought  I  mentioned  it  to  you  on 
our  way  hither,  I  have  had  the  honor  of  a  special 
invocation  from  brother  Guizot. 

Gib.  True,  true  ;  I  remember  your  speaking 
of  it. 

Tac.  Had  I  consulted  my  own  feelings,  I  should 
have  divided  the  day  between  London  and  Paris  ; 
but  you  insisted  so  on  visiting  this  dead-and-gone 
town,  that — 

Gib.  I  am  right  sorry  that  I  should  have  so 
deranged  your  plans. 

Tac.  Well,  well ;  all's  for  the  best,  no  doubt. 
But  I  must  insist,  in  turn,  on  your  accompanying 
me.  I  shall  be  proud  to  introduce  you  to  the  great 
philosophical  historian. 

Gib.  I  shall  be  in  the  way,  I  fear. 

Tac.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  You  must  know 
that  he  has  just  finished  the  first  part  of  his  His- 
tory of  America,  and  has  done  me  the  honor  to 
consult  me  about  some  passages  in  the  introductory 
chapter.  Meanwhile,  we  have  a  few  moments  at 
our  disposal.     Come,  let's  look  about  us  a  little. 

Gib.  With  all  my  heart.  What  say  you  to 
dropping  in  at  the  Pantheon  ? 

Tac.  Oh  no,  no  ;  that  would  only  revive  un- 
pleasant recollections. 


136  TACITUS — GIBBON, 

Gih.  Well,  St.  Peter's,  then  ? 
Tac.  That  would  be  far  more  agreeable,  cer- 
tainly.    Come,  let's  be  off. 

Gih.  At  your  service,  brother.  [Exeunt. 


APICIUS— VATEL. 

[SCENE— PALAIS  EOTAL.] 

Ap.  A  superb  picture  this,  brother. 

Vat.  It  is,  indeed.  Never  did  our  garden  look 
more  brilliant  or  animated.  And  the  entertain- 
ment, Apicius,  candidly  now,  has  it  equalled  your 
expectations  ?     Have  I  kept  my  word  ? 

Ap.  You  have,  an  hundred  fold.  I  have  been 
most  royally  feasted,  I  assure  you.  Both  the  old 
familiar  dishes,  and  the  manifold  novelties  of  the 
repast,  have  been  alike  delicious.  I  haven't  had 
such  a  treat  for  ages. 

Vat.  You  are  very  polite. 

Ap.  I  mean  what  I  say,  and  from  the  very 
bottom  of  my  ghostly  stomach,  I  thank  you,  for 
the  experiences  of  this  day. 

Vat.  The  cook  has  done  well,  certainly. 

Ap.  Sicily  never  held  a  better. 

Vat.  And  Messieurs,  Les  Trois  Freres — 


138  APICIUS VATEL 

Ap.  Jove  bless  them,  say  I  !  The  Horatii 
were  fools  to  them.  I  ask  yom-  pardon,  though, 
brother.     I  dida't  mean  to  interrupt  you. 

Vat  Not  at  all.  I  was  merely  about  to  add, 
that  they  would  give  a  proper  development  to  his 
talents.  An  uneq[ual  artist,  Apicius,  and  one  who 
has  evidently  not  yet  reached  the  zenith  of  his 
powers. 

Ap.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Vat.  I  certainly  do.  There  were  several  little 
faults  to-day,  both  in  the  way  of  excess  and  of  omis- 
sion, that  betrayed  the  immature  master.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  must  say,  there  were  some  evidences 
of  rare  genius.  That  fricandeau  was  a  chef- 
d'oeuvre. 

Ap.  A  perfect  love. 
Vat.  And  the  vol-au-vent. 
Ap.  Capital,  capital. 

Vat.  The  omelette  Soufflee,  too,  though  it 
might  have  been  more  delicately  flavored,  and  was, 
perhaps,  slightly  wanting  in  ethereality,  I  consider, 
on  the  whole,  a  success. 

Ap.  Fit  for  Venus  herself. 
Vat.  Those   coquilles,  on    the   contrary,  were 
entirely  without  piquancy,  or  expression. 
Ap.  Homer  nodded  there,  certainly. 


APICIUS VATEL,  139 

Vat.  And  as  for  the  mayonnaise,  it  was  abso- 
lutely scandalous  ;  so  full  of  sharp  points,  and 
inharmonious  combinations.  A  more  wretchedly 
conceived  and  shabbily  executed  salad  I  never  sat 
down  to.  I  was  terribly  mortified.  I  saw  at  once 
that  your  critical  palate  had  condemned  it,  though 
you  were  too  kind  to  say  so. 

Ap.  True,  brother,  true.  But  oh,  that  dinde 
truffce  !  Shade  of  VitelUus,  what  a  flavor  !  Think 
of  that,  Vatel,  and  be  merciful. 

Vat.  Very  creditable,  that,  I  confess. 

Ap.  Besides,  as  to  the  matter  of  the  mayon- 
naise, I  think  the  lobster  was  more  in  fault  than 
the  artist. 

Vat.  Vraiment  ? 

Ap.  Yes  ;  between  ourselves,  your  modern 
lobsters  are  far,  far  inferior  to  those  of  my  day. 

Vat.  Those  were  superb  specimens,  too,  in  the 
window,  as  we  entered. 

Ap.  You  wouldn't  have  said  so,  had  you  seen 
mine  at  Minturnae.  And  as  to  your  oysters,  I 
must  say,  I  have  been  greatly  disappointed  in 
them.  More  miserable,  little  apologies,  I  have 
never  seen. 

Vat.  And  yet  great  critics  have  thought  other- 
wise, brother. 


140  APICIUS — VATEL. 

A]).  I  can't  help  that.  To  me,  they  are  en- 
tirel}'  without  merit ;  with  neither  soul  nor  body  ; 
neither  giving  nor  appeasing  appetite  ;  and,  if 
those  to-day  were  fair  samples,  utterly  unworthy 
to  enter  into  the  composition  of  sauce  or  pate. 
And  while  I  am  finding  fault,  I  may  as  well  add, 
that  in  one  other  article,  you  moderns  have  fallen 
quite  below  my  expectations. 

Vat  Ah.? 

Ap.  I  refer  to  the  bread  department.  Your 
loaves  I  find  sadly  wanting,  both  in  variety  of 
kinds,  and  of  forms  :  no  disrespect  to  these  pctits 
pains,  which  are  both  light  and  sweet,  but  cer- 
tainly not  models  of  beauty. 

Vat.  Why,  you  surprise  me.  We  Parisians 
are  always  bragging  about  our  bread. 

Ap.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  for  you  are  far  below 
the  antique  mark  in  this  regard.  I  speak  author- 
itatively, brother,  for  I  made  this  subject  a  pro- 
found study  when  in  the  body,  both  at  home  and 
in  Sicily.  Nay  more,  was  I  not  the  first  to  intro- 
duce the  famous  Milesian  biscuits  into  Eome  ? 
Did  I  not  travel  to  Cappadocia,  expressly  to  find  out 
the  mystery  of  those  renowned  hot  rolls  of  theirs  ? 

Vat.  I  know  it,  great  father  of  cheesecakes,  I 
know  it.      Your  dictum  on  this  point  is  conclusive. 


APICIUS VATEL.  141 

Ap.  As  much  so  as  your  own  on  the  merits  of 
an  entremet,  or  that  of  your  namesake  on  a  ques- 
tion of  international  law. 

Vat.  True,  true  ;  a  clever  ghost  that. 

Ap.  But  with  these  exceptions,  brother,  I  say 
again,  tliis  entertainment  far,  fur  surpasses  any 
thing  that  was  ever  devised  by  the  cooks  or  ca- 
terers of  my  era.  In  itself  and  its  appointments, 
in  the  wonderful  variety  of  its  contents,  the  or- 
derly service  of  the  courses,  the  silent,  intelligent 
ministrations  of  the  attendants,  the  beauty  and 
convenience  of  the  vessels,  and  the  implements  of 
war  (if  I  may  so  call  them),  in  every  respect,  in- 
deed, it  is  a  model.  I  repeat  it ;  Lucullus  never 
reclined  at  one  approaching  to  it  ;  Heliogabalus 
would  have  given  half  his  empire  to  have  assisted 
at  it.  To  say  nothing  of  this  pleasant  little  salon, 
these  mirrors  that  thus  multiply  our  enjoyments, 
these  comfortable  couches,  and  above  all,  the  bril- 
liant spectacle  which  these  windows  command  ; 
these  porticoes  and  glittering  shops,  these  flowers 
and  fountains,  these  well-dressed  women,  these 
gay  uniforms,  these  scattered  groups  of  sippers  of 
coffee,  and  students  of  newspapers ;  a  picture, 
Vatel,  as  much  more  lively,  and  animated,  and 
brilliant  than  any  thing  Rome  could  show  in  my 


142  VPICIUS — VATEL. 

(lay,  as  the  dinner  itself  exceeds  the  performances 
of  our  antique  kitchens. 

Vat.  Indeed,  brother  ?  Such  an  endorsement, 
from  such  a  critic,  is  most  delightful.  (Aside.)  Con- 
found those  dominoes,  how  they  rattle  ! 

Ap.  I  must  say,  however,  that  keeping  this 
sitting  posture  so  long  I  have  found  somewhat 
embarrassing.  I  should  have  felt  more  at  home, 
too,  I  confess,  in  my  chaplet  and  slippers. 

Vat.  I  am  really  very  sorry.  Why  didn't  you 
say  so  at  first  ? 

Ap.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  But  especially, 
brother,  did  I  miss  the  customary  flute  solo,  when 
that  capon  was  so  ably  disintegrated  by  the  garQon. 
Not  a  French  fashion,  I  suppose. 

Vat.  Not  that  I  ever  heard  of. 

Ap.  But  jvhy  speak  of  these  things  ?  Spots 
on  the  sun,  spots  on  the  sun. 

Vat.  And  the  coffee,  brother,  it  has  not  dis- 
appointed you  ? 

Ap.  Most  fragrant,  most  exhilarating  :  a  divine 
invention.  And  oh,  that  eau-de-vie  de  Dantzick  ! 
The  very  shower  in  which  Zeus  descended  unto 
Danae.     Roses  and  violets,  how  delicious  ! 

Vat.  A  valuable  addition  to  our  cordials.  I 
prefer  the  maraschino  myself 


APICIUS VATEL.  143 

Ap.  Not  bad  ;  the  pennyroyal  was  a  little  too 
obvious  in  it,  however,  for  my  taste. 

,  Vat.  It  might  have  been  improved,  certainly. 
But,  Apicius,  were  you  really  in  earnest,  in  giving 
such  a  marked  and  emphatic  preference  as  you 
did,  to  our  wines,  over  those  of  your  day  ? 

Ap.  I  was.  You  have  placed  clarets  before 
me  to-day,  which  it  entered  not  into  the  hearts  of 
our  most  illustrious  bibbers  to  conceive  ;  clarets 
so  limpid,  lustrous,  light,  and  delicate,  that  I  was 
completely  taken  by  surprise ;  compared  with 
which,  our  choicest  Setine,  that  pet  drink,  you 
know,  of  our  Emperors',  was  crude  and  common- 
place, while  the  ordinary  Ca3cuban  and  Falernian 
of  our  cellars  were  the  veriest  sloe-juice,  alongside 
of  them. 

Vat.  You  amaze  me  ;  nor  can  I,  1  confess, 
reconcile  such  a  statement  with  the  enthusiastic 
accounts  of  some  of  your  poets  and  historians. 

Ap.  1  know  it,  I  know  it  ;  sheer  exaggera- 
tions, I)rother.  I  assure  you  (and  I  have  studied 
this  subject  well),  that  there  was  hardly  such  a 
thing  as  a  decent  goblet  of  vin-de-pays  to  be  found 
in  all  Rome,  even  in  Lucullus's  time.  There  was 
some  tolerable  Greek  wine  imported,  it  is  true, 
though  I   never  greatly  fancied   the  Greek  wines, 


144  AI'ICIUS VATEL. 

myself,  the  South  side  Cretan  always  oxeepted  ; 
but  our  native  specimens  were  alike  ill-grown  and 
ill-cured.  Indeed,  it  was  a  common  sayin,<:j  in  my 
day  (you  may  have  heard  of  it,  perhaps),  that  the 
very  first  time  that  four  different  wines  were  ever 
seen  on  a  Koman  table,  was  at  a  public  dinner, 
given  by  Julius  Csesar,  on  occasion  of  his  third 
purchase  of  (I  beg  your  pardon,  election  to,  I 
should  have  said)  the  Consulship.  Does  not  that 
fact  speak  volumes  ?  No,  no,  this  great  depart- 
ment of  epicurism  was  never  fairly  investigated, 
till  Augustus  took  the  reins.  Under  him,  and  his 
successor,  my  imperial  master,  we  tons  vivans 
entered  ujion  it  with  true  enthusiasm,  and  with 
what  I  had  hitherto  thought  a  scientific  acumen. 
I  myself  have  had  the  credit  of  giving  some  valu- 
able suggestions  concerning  it  ;  but,  Vatel,  after 
what  I  have  seen,  and  smelt,  and  tasted  this  day, 
I  am  constrained  to  confess  that  we  were  mere 
babies  alongside  of  you  moderns. 

Vat.  Well,  I  can  the  more  readily  believe  you, 
brother,  when  I  see  the  wonderful  improvements 
in  our  French  wines,  since  I  flourished.  By  the 
way,  I  was  glad  to  see  that  you  relished  the 
Champagne. 

Ap.  I  did,  indeed.     It  was  no  great  novelty 


APICIUS VATEL.  145 

to  me,  however.  We  had  abundance  of  sweet, 
sparkling  wines,  in  my  day.  To  be  sure,  that 
thimbleful  that  you  cut  out  of  the  heart  of  that 
frozen  bottle,  was  divine.  A  bright  idea  that, 
brother  ;  brighter  never  entered  the  lovely  head 
of  Hebe  herself. 

Vat.  Rather  a  wicked  whim,  though.  I  was 
a  little  ashamed  of  it,  afterwards,  I  confess.  But 
the  chambertin,  brother ;  you  found  that  a  rich, 
fruity  wine,  did  you  not  ? 

Ap.  An  able-bodied  liquor,  truly.  The  Eo- 
manee,  though,  for  my  money. 

Vat.  That  was  a  hit. 

Ap.  Corpo  di  Baccho,  what  a  bouquet  !  And 
then  the  pleasant  way  in  which  it  was  served  ;  its 
air  of  repose  in  that  wicker  cradle,  the  affectionate 
veneration  with  which  the  gargon  regarded  it,  the 
paternal  tenderness  with  which  he  handled  it,  and 
his  evident  deHght  when  you  pronounced  that 
emphatic  eulogy  ;  altogether,  brother,  it  formed  a 
scene  truly  impressive.  Oh,  dear,  how  I  should 
love  to  take  a  dozen  of  it  with  me  !  It  would 
hardly  stand  the  sky-voyage,  though,  I  fear. 

Vat.  No,  it's  a  poor  traveller.  I  have  never 
tasted  any  out  of  France,  worth  drinking  ;  or 
coffee  either,  as  to  that  matter,  While  I  think 
7 


146  APICIUS — VATEL. 

of  it,  brother,  you  rather  neglected  those  choco- 
late ices. 

Ap.  Not  at  all ;  a  new  and  most  agree- 
able sensation  to  me.  A  wonderful  fabric  that, 
Vatel. 

Vat.  One  of  our  most  interesting  specialites. 
I  was  quite  surprised  to  find  so  much  talent,  ca- 
pital, and  labor  embarked  in  it. 

Ap.  Quite  a  novelty,  too,  on  earth ;  is  it 
not? 

Vat.  In  this  form,  certainly.  You  noticed 
that  copy  of  the  Pantheon,  in  the  Rue  Viviennc, 
as  we  passed  ? 

Ap.  I  did,  and  was  much  edified  by  it.  I  had 
seen  occasional  jelly-versions  of  our  own  Pantheon, 
on  Roman  supper-tables,  but  nothing  comparable 
to  this. 

Vat.  The  first  chocolate  church  on  record,  I 
believe.  It  impressed  me  vastly,  I  must  say  ;  and, 
indeed,  just  before  meeting  you,  I  had  had  quite  a 
talk  with  the  proprietor  concerning  it ;  a  very 
civil  person,  who  showed  me  all  the  beautiful  and 
ingenious  machinery  employed  in  the  manufacture. 
It  seems  that  he  had,  before  this,  nearly  completed 
a  miniature  edition  of  the  Madeleine,  in  the  same 
material  ;    l)ut,  unluckily,   some  naughty  children 


AilCIUS VATEL.  147 

fell  upon  it,  one  afternoon,  during  his  absence, 
and  before  he  returned,  had  quite  devoured  the 
entire  western  front. 

A^.  Ah? 

Vat.  Yes,  the  sacrilegious  young  wretches  ! 

Ap.  But,  holloa,  what  are  you  about,  brother  ? 

Vat  Merely  pocketing  my  portion  of  the  sugar. 
Those  other  two  lumps  are  yours. 

Ap.  Thank  you,  thank  you.  Beautiful  things 
they  are,  too.  Bless  me,  how  they  sparkle  !  No- 
thing during  our  feast  has  more  impressed  me, 
Vatel,  than  tliis  superb  product  of  your  modern 
ingenuity.  Do  tell  me,  how  is  it  made  ?  Are 
there  not  many,  and  tedious,  and  expensive  pro- 
cesses implied  in  such  a  result  ? 

Vat.  Neither  many  nor  costly.  The  history 
of  the  sugar  manufacture  is  most  curious  and  in- 
structive, however,  and  one  I  have  reflected  a  good 
deal  upon  ;  but  were  I  to  undertake  to  do  the 
theme  justice,  brother,  we  should  have  to  forego 
our  Opera  to-night. 

Ap.  That  would  never  do. 

Vat.  I  will  give  you  some  documents  upon  the 
subject,  though,  before  we  leave  the  planet,  that 
will  tell  you  all  about  it. 

Ap.  I  shall  be  greatly  obliged  to  you.     There 


148  APICIUS — VATEL. 

wore  several  other  points,  too,  more  especially 
rel.'iting  to  the  dessert,  on  which  I  greatly  need 
illumination.  By  the  way,  speaking  of  the  des- 
sert, how  is  it,  brother,  that  you  had  never  a 
syllable  of  praise  to  give  to  that  charming  Ger- 
trude Russe  ? 

Vat  Grertrude  Russe  ?  Charlotte,  Charlotte 
Russe,  if  you  please. 

Ap.  I  ask  your  pardon ;  Charlotte  Russe,  Do 
you  know,  I  thought  that  a  very,  very  deUcious 
dish  ? 

Vat.  A  well-balanced  effort.  It  might  have 
been  fresher,  however.  Of  course,  you  had  it  at 
your  Roman  restaurants  ? 

Ap.  Our  Roman  restaurants  ?  Bah  !  Didn't 
I  tell  you,  brother,  that  we  had  nothing  worthy  of 
the  name  ?  No  reputable  dish  or  guest  was  ever 
seen  in  one  ;  vile,  vile  holes,  I  assure  you. 

Vat.  And  the  Carte  ? 

Ap.  Nothing,  nothing  of  the  sort  on  any 
table.  Our  dishes,  as  I  said  before,  were  an- 
nounced viva  voce,  and  the  more  distinguished 
ones,  with  musical  accompaniments. 

Vat.  True,  true.  Who  gave  the  best  dinners 
in  Rome,  in  your  day,  brother  ?  I  mean  next  to 
yourself,  of  course. 


APICIUS — VATEL.  149 

Ap.  Well,  on  the  whole,  Sejanus.  At  one 
time,  he  had  the  greatest  cook  of  the  age  ;  had 
he  kept  him,  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  have 
eventually  secured  the  imperial  purple.  In  an 
evil  hour  they  quarrelled,  the  artist  left  for  other 
kitchens,  the  dinners  fell,  and  down  went  the 
favorite.  Next  to  him,  Macer  gave  the  most  sump- 
tuous entertainments  ;  a  miserable  old  wretch,  by 
the  way,  and  about  three  quarters  crazy.  You 
may  have  heard  of  him. 

Vat.  I  have  not  had  that  pleasure. 

Ajy.  He  at  times  indulged  in  some  of  the  most 
extraordinary  caprices,  in  the  way  of  dinners,  that 
were  ever  heard  of.  Why,  do  you  know,  Vatel, 
that  he  actually  served  up  an  entire  elephant  once 
to  his  guests  ? 

Vat.  Mon  Dieu  !     Boned,  of  course. 

Ap.  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  in  its  bones  ;  roasted  to 
a  turn,  too,  and  stuffed  with  chestnuts. 

Vat.  You  amaze  me.     What  a  dish  to  carve  ! 

Ap.  Well,  not  so  difficult  as  you  might  ima- 
gine. It  rose  through  the  floor,  you  must  know, 
to  the  sound  of  music,  gayly  dressed  from  trunk 
to  tail,  in  roses,  ribbons,  and  evergreens  ;  when 
fairly  in  its  place,  the  master-cook  gave  the  signal, 
whereupon  a  score  of  youthful  carvers  leaped  upon 


150  APICIUS — VATEL. 

the  creature,  and  the  work  of  disintegration  be- 
gan, the  band  discoursing  lively  strains  the  while  ; 
the  bones  having  been  previously  secured  from 
falling,  by  some  ingenious  contrivance  of  the 
archimagirus.  The  process  over,  the  animal  de- 
scended in  the  same  stately  way  in  which  he  rose. 

Vat.  And  you  really  found  the  creature  pala- 
table ? 

Ap.  Well,  to  say  truth,  the  sauce  piquante 
which  accompanied  it,  was  so  exceedingly  pungent 
and  savory,  that  it  was  hard  to  tell.  One  might 
have  eaten  one's  grandsire  with  it,  without  repug- 
nance. 

Vat.  What  a  monstrous  whim,  to  be  sure  ! 

Ap.  He  was  continually  doing  things  just  as 
extravagant.  I  supposed  you  had  heard  of  him  ; 
the  same  who  used  to  syringe  his  lettuces  with 
mead,  and  moisten  his  cauhflowers  with  Massic. 
They  even  accused  him,  at  one  time,  of  throwing 
babies  into  his  fish  ponds. 

Vat.  The  villain  ! 

Ap.  He,  who  began  life,  a  barber's  boy,  and 
who  lived  to  occupy  the  finest  palace  on  the 
Coelian  ;  where  he  died  at  last  of  suftbcation,  by  a 
pheasant  bone. 

Vat.  He  ought  to  have  been  choked  in  a  very 


APICIUS VATEL,  151 

flifFereiit  way,  the  wretch  1  Ah,  those  were  rotten, 
rotteu  times,  brother. 

Ap.  Yes,  the  less  said  about  them  the  better. 
To  return  to  the  Carte  a  manger;  I  repeat  it,  bro- 
ther, no  such  document  as  this  was  ever  dreamed 
of  by  our  epicures.  Wonderful,  wonderful  work  1 
The  more  I  look  at  it,  Vatel,  the  more  I  study  it, 
the  more  and  more  am  I  lost  in  admiration  and 
delight. 

Vat.  A  clever  compilation. 

Ap.  Such  binding,  too  !  What  charming  vig- 
nettes !  What  an  orderly  distribution  of  topics  ! 
What  sweet,  fanciful  epithets,  too,  for  the  master- 
pieces !  Oh  dear,  never  till  now  was  the  belly- 
god  truly  worshipped  !  What  a  service  !  What 
a  ritual !  Ah,  why  couldn't  I  have  been  born  in 
this  century  ?     Well,  well  ! 

Vat.  Brother,  brother,  don't  get  excited.  {Of- 
fers him  his  box.) 

Ap.  Thanks,  thanks.  By  Jove,  how  delicious  1 
One  don't  get  a  pinch  of  snuff  like  that  in  every 
planet.  Well,  well,  as  I  was  about  to  say,  it 
would  be  strange,  ray  friend,  if  you  couldn't  get 
up  a  better  dinner  than  I  ever  did.  When  I 
think  how  mind  has  marched  since  my  time,  how 
all  thi-ee  kingdoms  have  been  overrun,  what  innu- 


152  APICIUS VATEL, 

merable  precious  secrets  have  been  coaxed  or  forced 
out  of  old  Alma  Mater ;  and  above  all,  of  tlie 
great  fact,  that  you  have  twice  as  large  a  planet 
to  fill  your  larders  and  your  casters  from  as  I  had, 
I  should  be  surprised,  indeed,  if  the  cuisine  had 
not  advanced  pari  passu  with  all  the  other  good 
things. 

Vat.  Still,  you  achieved  some  great  successes 
in  your  time. 

Ap.  We  did,  we  did.  But  ah,  what's  this, 
that  somebody  has  written  on  the  title-page  here  ? 
Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Brillat-Savarin.  Who 
the  deuce  was  he,  pray  ? 

Vat.  Is  it  possible  you  have  never  met  him  ? 
Why,  he  is  our  great  oracle  in  all  culinary  matters, 
and  has  written  on  the  divine  art,  most  divinely. 
If  you  leave  Paris  without  a  copy  of  the  Physio- 
logie  du  Gout,  I  shall  never  forgive  you.  By  the 
way,  Apicius,  there  is  a  treatise  on  this  subject, 
with  your  name  appended  to  it.  Do,  for  heaven's 
sake,  relieve  my  mind  at  once,  by  disclaiming  all 
connection  with  it. 

Ap.  I  do.  I  have  seen  the  trash  you  refer  to. 
It  is  an  aiTant  forgery.  I  did  leave  behind  me 
some  notes  on  pastry,  however,  and  special  in- 
structions concerning  them  in  my  will  ;  but  whe- 
ther my  executors  obeyed   them  or  not,  I  have 


APICIUS — VATEL.  153 

never  been  able  to  find  out.  You  may  possibly 
have  stumbled  over  a  stray  copy,  brother. 

Vat.  Alas,  no  !  They  are  lost,  I  fear,  for  ever. 
I  am  delighted,  though,  to  hear  you  disavow  the 
other  performance,  for  it  is,  indeed,  most  unmiti- 
gated rubbish  ;  the  very  opposite,  in  all  respects, 
of  brother  Savarin's  work  ;  which,  for  philosophi- 
cal arrangement,  judicious  reflections,  purity  of 
style,  and  piquancy  of  anecdotes,  cannot  be  sur- 
passed. Those  preliminary  aphorisms  of  his  are 
positively  delicious. 

Ap.  Indeed  ?  I  must  have  a  copy,  by  all 
means.  But  surely,  of  all  our  innumerable  gas- 
tronomic treatises,  to  say  nothing  of  those  of  our 
Greek  brethren,  a  good  many  must  have  descended 
to  posterity.     How  is  it,  Vatel  ? 

Vat.  No,  no,  no  :  quite  the  reverse,  I  assure 
you.  Pretty  much  all  we  know  about  your  clas- 
sical dinners,  comes  through  brother  Atheneeus. 
His  delightful  work,  thank  heaven,  is  safe. 

Ap.  He  speaks  pretty  freely  of  me  in  it,  I  am 
told. 

Vat.  Somewhat  so,  yet  with  evident  admira- 
tion. A  charming  book,  Apicius  ;  full  of  pleasant 
gossip  and  piquant  poetry.  It  was  my  favorite 
Sunday  reading,  here  below. 

Ap.  I  dare  say.     Ah  well,  it's  easy  to  theo- 


154  APICIUS — VATEL. 

rize  and  prattle  about  these  matters ;  but  to 
create,  to  execute,  there's  the  rub.  You  never 
told  me,  by  the  way,  who  was  the  artist  par  ex- 
cellence of  the  day. 

Vat.  The  ruling  cook  on  earth,  this  moment, 
they  tell  me,  is  Soyer. 

Ajo.  Soyer  ? 

Vat.  The  same.  His  first  name  I  am  not 
so  sure  of;  Achille,  or  Hercule,  I  forget  which. 
Something  heroic,  at  all  events,  as  it  ought  to  be. 
I  have  seen  one  or  two  of  his  performances,  and 
was  really  charmed.  A  true  artist.  Others  may 
have  surpassed  him  in  fertility  of  invention,  or  in 
brilliancy  of  imagination ;  but  for  general  excel- 
lence, and  broad,  comprehensive  views,  he  is  enti- 
tled to  all  praise.  He  is,  moreover,  as  his  work 
entitled  Thoughts  on  the  Products  of  Perigordj 
abundantly  proves,  a  diligent,  conscientious  stu- 
dent. Yes,  a  great,  a  reliable  master ;  or  as  your 
old  poet  so  prettily  expresses  it, 

"  An  honest,  genuine  cook, 
Who  from  his  childhood  long  has  learnt  the  art, 
And  knows  its  great  eftects,  and  has  its  rules 
Deep  buried  in  his  mind." 

I  was  pleased  to  hear,  by  the  way,  that  the  Em- 
peror has  just  sent  him  the  Grand  Cross  of  the 


APICIUS — VATEL.  155 

legion  of  honor,  as  a  recognition  of  his  great  ser- 
vices to  humanity. 

Ap.  Oh,  how  I  should  love  to  sit  under  his 
ministry  !     Where  is  he  officiating  now  ? 

Vat.  He  is  at  present  ruling  the  roast  in 
London.  He  is  now  executing,  they  tell  me,  a 
series  of  diplomatic  dinners,  which  will,  no  doubt, 
soon  bring  the  Eastern  question  to  a  satisfactory 
solution. 

Ap.  Ah  brother,  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  for 
another  pinch  of  that  transcendent  snuff  of  yours. 

Vat.  With  the  greatest  pleasure. 

Ap.  What  a  treat,  what  a  treat !  Do  tell  us, 
Vatel,  where  is  the  next  best  place  (out  of  France, 
I  mean)  to  go  to  for  a  dinner  ?  How  do  you  think 
I  would  like  the  English  cooking  ? 

Vat.  Not  over  well. 

Ap.  The  Dutch  cuisine,  they  tell  me — 

Vat.  Bah,  bah,  bah  !  Give  Holland  the  widest 
berth  possible. 

Ap.  Indeed  !     Italy,  perhaps  ? 

Vat.  There  are  stray  artists  in  Italy,  certainly, 
of  true  genius  ;  mostly  of  Gallic  descent,  however. 
I  have  seen  divine  cooking  in  Milan  ;  but,  my 
friend,  the  times  are  quite  too  much  out  of  joint 
there,  either  for  faithful  roasting,  or  tranquil  eat- 


156  APlCIUS — VATEL, 

ing.  If  you  really  intend  taking  another  terres- 
trial dinner  before  you  go,  I  should  say,  take  it, 
by  all  means,  in  Vienna.  You'll  be  sure  of  find- 
ing fair  soups  there,  capital  wines,  and  downright 
genius  in  the  pudding  department. 

Ap.  I  did  think  somewhat  of  taking  a  peep 
at,  and  meal  in  America,  before  my  departure. 
What  say  you  ? 

Vat.  Oh,  don't  throw  away  your  appetite  in 
that  style. 

Ap.  Why,  is  there  nothing  fit  to  eat  there  ? 

Vat.  I  don't  say  that.  There  are  too  many 
of  my  countrymen  there,  not  to  have  taught  them 
something.  Still,  the  national  genius  don't  incline 
that  way.  Nature,  indeed,  has  been  most  liberal 
towards  them,  in  the  way  of  game,  fish,  and  fruits. 
Especially  has  she  endowed  their  coasts  with 
oysters  that  are,  indeed,  worthy  of  the  attention 
of  an  Apicius.  (A.  boivs.)  But  they  are  only 
beginning  to  avail  themselves  of  her  munificence. 
I  have  heard,  it  is  true,  of  certain  dishes,  as  pre- 
pared by  the  aged  colored  female  cooks  of  the 
country,  that  reveal  a  pretty  talent.  Fame  re- 
ports favorably  of  their  stewed  terrapins,  and 
fricasseed  chickens.  As  a  general  thing,  however, 
the  art  is  in  its  infancy  there.     Both  cooking  and 


APICIUS — VATEL.  157 

eating,  I  am  told,  are  alike  hasty,  ill-considered, 
and  tumultuous. 

Ap.  Indeed  ! 

Vat.  Yes  ;  and  besides  that,  there's  altogether 
too  much  democracy  below  stairs,  there,  for  great 
culinary  effects,     A  sad  want  of  discipline,  I  hear. 

Ap.  You  don't  approve  of  democracy,  then,  in 
kitchens  ? 

Vat.  No  more  than  I  do  on  shipboard.  Prompt 
and  unqualified  obedience  to  the  edicts  of  the  chef 
is  the  first  great  law  of  the  kitchen.  There  can 
be  no  laurels  won  without  it.  Of  course,  we  must 
have  beside  the  clear  head,  the  tranquil  mind,  the 
ample  purse,  and  the  sufficient  buttery  ;  but  above 
all,  I  repeat  it,  absolute,  absolute  sway. 

Ap.  Sound  doctrine,  and  succinctly  stated.  I 
shall  not  dine  in  America,  But  how  is  it  with 
the  South  Pacific  and  African  cuisines  ?  Is  there 
nothing  there  deserving  an  epicure's  attention  ? 

Vat.  Cela  depend.  If  you  have  a  penchant 
for  a  bit  of  half-cooked  missionary,  or  the  leg  of  a 
cold  slave  or  so,  you  can  doubtless  be  accommo- 
dated. Whale  en  salmi  is  the  favorite  national 
dish  at  the  islands,  I  believe.  You'll  find  it  a  great 
delicacy,  no  doubt. 

Ap.  Thank  you,  thank  you. 


158  APICIUS — VATEL. 

Vat.  But  why  not  let  well  enough  alone  ?  If 
you  are  bound  to  stay  another  day  on  earth,  stick  to 
our  worthy  hosts,  and  be  happy.  I  wish  to  heaven 
I  could  stay  with  you. 

Ap.  Why  can't  you  ? 

Vat.  It  is  out  of  the  question.  I  have  a  grand 
birthday  banquet  to  prepare  to-morrow,  for  a 
select  party,  in  the  Star  Valeria ;  one  which  will 
require  all  my  thought  and  skill.  I  must  be  far 
away  from  here,  by  sunrise.  But  come,  brother, 
if  we  are  going  to  take  our  little  promenade  in 
the  garden,  before  the  Opera,  it's  high  time  we 
were  in  motion. 

Ap.  Let's  see  ;  what  did  you  say  the  Opera 
was  ? 

Vat.  The  Prophete.  Viardot-Garcia  is  sub- 
lime in  it.  The  ballet,  too,  is  superb.  I'll  show 
you  some  pantomimic  eflfects,  to-night,  Apicius, 
that  will  astonish  you. 

Ap.  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  I  was  a  con- 
temporary of  Bathyllus,  remember. 

Vat.  Yes,  yes.  A  very  great  artist,  certainly  ; 
but  there's  a  female  dancer  in  this  piece,  who  in 
beauty  of  limb,  lustre  of  eye,  and  grace  of  style, 
is  absolutely  divine.  All  Paris  is  at  her  feet,  I 
assure  you. 


APICIUS — VATEL.  159 

Aj).  Indeed  !     I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  her. 
And  now  for  our  promenade. 

Vnf:     A  lions  done.  TFJfrMinf 


SEJANUS— RICHARD   III. 

[SCENE— WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.] 

Rich.  Here  we  are,  here  we  are :  one  of  the 
last  places  on  earth  I  would  willingly  have  come 
to. 

Sej.  Oh  well,  if  it  is  so  very  irksome  to  you, 
let's  be  ojS'  forthwith. 

Rich.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  Now  you  are 
here,  make  the  most  of  it.  Come,  put  your  feet 
and  eyes  in  motion. 

Sej.  But  why  so  peremptory  ?  Is  it  strange 
that  I  should  feel  some  little  curiosity  about  the 
scenes  of  your  earthly  villanies  ?  Besides,  didn't 
I  show  you  all  over  Rome,  without  grumbling  ? 

Rich.  You're  right.  I  ask  your  pardon.  But, 
bustle,  bustle  ;  we've  no  time  to  lose.  One  little 
hour  more,  and  then — 

S^'.  We  must  return  to  our  torments.  Even 
so  ;  well,  well,  well  1 


SEJANUS RICHARD     III.  161 

Mich.  Pshaw,  no  whining,  brother ;  be  your- 
self. Well,  how  do  you  like  the  looks  of  things 
here  ?  Very  different  from  your  Koman  temples, 
isn't  it  ? 

Sej.  It  is,  indeed  ;  most  commanding,  though, 
most  beautiful. 

Rich.  By  St.  Paul,  I  hardly  know  the  place 
myself,  they  have  made  such  changes  here. 

Sej.  How  admirably  those  columns  are  dis- 
posed !  What  graceful  arches,  too !  What  a 
superb  roof !     This  is  really  charming. 

Rich.  A  clever  piece  of  work,  certainly. 

Sej.  Such  a  goodly  congregation  of  statues,  too  ! 

Rich.  Quite  a  mob  of  them.  We've  no  time 
to  make  their  acquaintance,  though.  Pretty  fel- 
lows, are  they  not  ?  And  accurate  likenesses,  no 
doubt.  No  flattery  here,  oh  no,  nor  falsehood. 
Not  a  lie  carved  on  any  of  these  pedestals,  nor 
beneath  any  of  these  profiles.  Gospel  truth,  gos- 
pel truth,  every  syllable.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Sej.  {Aside.)  How  bitter  he  is  to-da,y  !  Well, 
well,  brother,  say  what  you  will,  this  is  a  right 
princely  assemblage,  and  'twas  a  noble  thought, 
that  of  convening  it.  For  all  your  sarcasms,  you 
would  be  right  glad  of  a  niche  here,  and  an  honor- 
able mention  ;  you  know  you  would. 


162  SEJANUS RICHARD    III. 

Rich.  Bah  !  Don't  be  so  absurd.  Marry  come 
up,  Sejanus,  are  you  turning  penitent,  all  at  once, 
in  your  spiritual  old  age,  and  preacher,  too  ?  Dr. 
Sejanus !     Ha,  ha,  ha  ;  that  is  a  good  one. 

Sej.  I  am  no  penitent,  my  friend  ;  and  as  to 
sermons,  there  is  surely  no  lack  of  them  in  the 
stones  around  us.  I  must  say,  though,  that  I 
tliink  that  diabolical  chuckle  of  yours  not  altoge- 
ther in  the  best  taste,  in  a  place  like  this. 

Rich.  You  think  so,  do  you  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Come,  come,  ghost,  none  of  your  nonsense.  But 
what  the  deuce  are  you  lingering  over,  there  ? 

Sej.  A  most  superb  bas-relief. 

Rich.  What  about,  pray  ? 

Sej.  It  is  the  representation  of  a  shipwreck  ; 
and  done  with  wonderful  spirit.  Let's  see ;  in 
whose  honor  is  it  ?  Sir,  Sir — I  can't  make  it  out. 
Do  come  and  spell  this  word,  brother,  if  you 
please. 

Rich.  Where  is  it  ?  Where  is  it  ?  (reads.) 
Sir  Cloudesely  Shovell.  Shovell  ?  Phoebus,  what 
a  name  !  What's  all  this  ?  Rear- Admiral  of 
Great  Britain — long  and  faithful  services — lost 
off  the  rocks  of  Scilly.  Why  here's  at  least  an 
acre  of  it.  Catch  me  ploughing  through  all  those 
hard   words,  and  long  adjectives  !      Come,  come. 


SEJANUS — RICHARD  III.  163 

don't  waste  your  time  oq  such  rigmarole  as  this  ! 
But,  by  Jove,  there's  a  pleasant-looking  old  gen- 
tleman, yonder.  Can  you  make  out  the  name, 
Sejanus,  at  this  distance  ? 

Sej.  What,  that  seated  figure,  in  a  brown 
study  ?  Let's  see ;  Isaac — Isaac — W-a-t — Watts, 
if  I  read  it  right. 

Bich.  Watts,  Watts,  Watts.?  Surely,  that 
name  is  familiar  to  me.  Watts  ?  Oh,  true,  true  ; 
I  remember ;  one  of  the  worthy  divines  that  I  stood 
between,  in  the  gallery,  when  I  showed  myseK  to 
the  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen  ;  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Sej.  {Aside.)  That  infernal  laugh  again  ! 

Rich.  Some  pious  descendant  of  his,  I  dare 
say.  That  was  a  capital  joke,  to  be  sure  !  And 
the  way  in  which  that  fat-witted  old  fellow  of  a 
Mayor  swallowed  the  bait,  it  was  too  ridiculous. 
My  powers  of  face-keeping  were  never  taxed  so 
severely  before  or  since.  A  precious  brace  of 
bishops,  truly  ! 

Sej.  A  very  different  person  this,  I  should  say  ; 
so  far,  at  least,  as  I  can  decipher  the  inscription. 
But,  by  heavens,  what  a  magnificent  monument  ! 

Rich.  Ah,  what  are  you  gaping  over  now,  pray  ? 

Sej.  Here,  to  the  left.  Don't  you  see  ?  A 
lovely  creature,  truly  !  Who  is  it  ?  Mrs. — Mrs. — 


164  SEJANUS RICHARD  III. 

Rich.  Nightingale,  Nightingale. 

Sej.  Ah  yes.  Isn't  she  charming  ?  I  declare, 
that  side  face  reminds  me  very  much  of  Livia's  ; 
far  more  sweetness  of  expression,  though.  Surely 
you  admire  that  figure,  brother  ? 

Rich.  So,  so.  That's  her  fool  of  a  husband, 
I  suppose,  that's  trj'ing  to  keep  off  the  dart  of 
Old  Dry-bones,  yonder.  Exquisite  idea  !  He's 
the  gem  of  the  group. 

Sej.  Oh  well,  sneer  away,  sneer  away.  You 
are  in  an  unusually  savage  humor  to-day,  Richard. 

Rich.  And  you  in  a  most  lackadaisical  one. 
What  has  come  over  you  ?  But  ah,  here  we  are, 
now,  in  a  part  of  the  church  really  worth  looking 
at.     There's  a  choir  for  you  !     Isn't  it  fine  ? 

Sej.  It  is,  indeed. 

Rich.  Great  alterations,  though,  since  my  day. 
All  that  finery  in  the  lantern  is  quite  new  to  me. 
That  altar-piece,  too,  has  a  wonderfully  fresh  look  ; 
and  yet  it  accords  entirely  with  my  recollections. 
That  mosaic  pavement,  though,  I'll  swear  to  that. 

Sej.  Ah! 

RieJi.  Yes,  Sejanus,  that  is  the  identical  pave- 
ment on  which  I  knelt  at  my  coronation. 

Sej.  Indeed  ! 

Rich.  The  same,     'Tis  now  almost  four  centu- 


SEJANUS RICHARD     III.  165 

ries  since,  and  yet  how  vividly  can  I  recall  tlie 
scene.  Jesu  !  how  the  old  archbishop  rattled  off 
the  coronation-oath  !  I  don't  wonder  he  was  a 
little  nervous.  My  poor  silly  Anne,  too,  she  cried 
and  shook  like  an  aspen,  all  through  the  service. 
I  was  not  altogether  easy,  myself,  I  must  say,  nor 
ventured  to  look  about  me  much.  I  did  catch 
Buckingham's  eye  once,  though.  God's  chickens, 
what  an  awfully  solemn  face  the  rascal  had  made 
up  for  the  occasion  !  There  was  a  great  abun- 
dance of  demure  priests  in  attendance,  1  remem- 
ber ;  ay,  and  of  good  stout  halberdiers  within  call, 
to  secure  us  against  interruption.  Catesby,  the 
varlet,  had  looked  well  to  that  business.  There 
have  been  more  brilliant  spectacles  within  these 
walls,  certainly.  But,  considering  that  we  had 
only  one  day's  notice,  brother,  it  was  not  badly 
done.  Quite  a  respectable  show  on  the  whole,  in 
the  way  both  of  banners  and  costumes.  Ah,  how 
glad  I  was  to  have  the  farce  over  !  You  had  no 
occasion,  I  believe,  for  any  such  ridiculous  display 
yourself;  eh,  Sejanus  .^ 

Sej.  Alas,  no  ! 

Rich.  Well,  you  needn't  be  so  downhearted 
about  it.  It  wasn't  your  fault,  my  ghost.  You 
tried  your  best,  Satan  knows. 


166  SKJANUS RICHARD  III. 

Sej.  Tried  my  best  ? 

Rich.  Ay,  truly,  and  showed  a  deal  of  clever- 
ness. But  the  Emperor  was  too  deep  for  you ; 
ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Sej,  Well,  you  needn't  laugh  over  it,  thus 
savagely.  If  you  had  had  a  Tiberius  to  deal 
with,  you  might  have  come  off  second  best  your- 
self. 

Rich.  Not  I,  i'faith. 

Sej.  Ah,  you  don't  know  him,  you  don't  know 
him. 

Rich.  I  beg  yonr  pardon.  I  know  the  ghost 
as  well  as  you  do  ;  one  of  the  shrewdest,  deepest 
fiends,  I  grant  you,  in  all  our  dominions  ;  but  he 
wouldn't  have  gulled  me  in  that  way  ;  not  he  ; 
neither  in  nor  out  of  the  body.  No,  no,  Sejanus, 
that  last  move  of  yours  was  a  sad  blunder.  Had 
you,  instead  of  snapping  at  that  bait  of  the  tri- 
buneship,  which  you  ought  to  have  suspected  at 
once  as  a  mere  trick,  from  the  very  fact  that  the 
letter  in  question  was  entrusted  to  your  notorious 
enemy  ;  had  you,  I  say,  left  Rome  with  a  few 
trusty  followers,  the  very  moment  you  heard  of 
Macro's  arrival,  and  made  straight  for  Capreas, 
you  might  have  secured  the  diadem. 

Sej.  Oh,  no,  no  ;  you  talk  very  learnedly  about 


SEJANUS KICHARD  III.  167 

this  matter,  Richard  ;  but  how,  in  Pluto's  name, 
could  I  have  left  Rome  at  that  time  ? 

Rich.  Pshaw  !  The  idea  that  he  who  wielded 
the  heaviest  purse  in  the  realm,  could  not  have 
bought  his  way  through  those  gates,  unquestioned  ! 
I  repeat  it  ;  you  should  have  gone  straight  to 
Capreae,  made  good  your  landing  in  the  night, 
hoodwinked  the  guards  on  duty,  which  you  might 
easily  have  done  by  some  plausible  story  or  other, 
and  so  have  pierced  the  tyrant  to  the  heart,  yes, 
in  his  very  bed. 

Sej.  A  likely  project,  truly,  when  every  road 
was  lined  with  spies,  and  the  island  itself  sur- 
rounded with  them  !  Such  a  scheme  would  have 
been  sheer  madness, 

Bich.  On  the  contrary,  had  it  been  conducted 
with  proper  spirit  and  caution,  I  have  no  doubt  it 
would  have  been  crowned  with  success  ;  ay,  or  ever 
your  absence  from  Rome  had  been  fairly  suspected. 
And  if  so,  can  there  be  any  question  that  the 
Praetorian  guards  would  have  installed  you  in  the 
vacant  chair,  with  acclamations  ?  Nay,  had  the 
attempt  failed,  would  not  its  very  boldness  and 
brilliancy  have  for  ever  vindicated  your  fame,  in 
the  eyes  of  every  true  soldier  ?  But  to  act  as 
you  did;  to   fall   plump   into   the   net   with   your 


168  SEJAXUS RICHARD    111. 

eyes  open  ;  through  the  instruiiieiitality,  too, 
of  such  a  third-rate  scoundrel  as  Macro  ;  to  be 
jeered  at  in  the  open  Senate  by  your  very  tools  ; 
to  be  accused,  deposed,  condemned,  sentenced, 
butchered,  all  in  one  little  hour,  and  that  by  your 
own  sheer  mismanagement ;  I  lose  all  patience, 
when  I  think  of  it. 

Sej.  I  played  my  cards  badly,  I  must  confess. 
Well,  well,  what  signifies  it  now  ?  Why  revive 
the  past  ?  You  would  have  shown  more  spirit, 
you  think,  in  my  position,  and  more  sagacity.  Be 
it  so,  be  it  so.  After  all,  what  does  it  amount 
to  ?  You  gained  the  bauble,  for  which  you  sold 
your  soul,  and  I  did  not — 

Rich.  But  was  fooled  out  of  it  by  more  cun- 
ning cut-throats ;  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Sej.  Enjoy  your  joke,  my  friend,  enjoy  your 
joke.  And  yet,  I  think  I  had  the  best  of  it,  after 
all.  I  would  not  have  changed  places  with  you, 
if  I  could. 

Bich.  Of  course  not,  of  course  not. 

Sej.  Come,  come,  Richard,  I  know  your  history 
quite  as  well  as  you  know  mine,  and  can  enlarge 
upon  it  quite  as  rhetorically.  Precious  little 
comfort  or  profit  did  your  crown  bring  you,  my 
friend. 


SEJANUS RICHARD  III.  169 

Rich.  You  think  so,  do  you  ? 

Sej.  Ay  ;  nor  do  I  believe  a  more  tumultuous, 
wretched  reign  is  to  be  found  in  all  earth's 
annals.  You  needn't  stare  so.  I  know  all  about 
you.  And,  indeed,  'twas  but  yesterday  that 
Macbeth  was  rehearsing  to  me  your  miserable 
story. 

Rich.  Poor  devil !  He  favored  you  with  my 
biography,  did  he  ?  By  the  way,  Sejanus,  why 
did  he  refuse  to  come  with  us  to-day  ?  What  was 
it  he  said,  in  reply  to  your  invitation  ? 

Sej.  Well,  he  muttered  so,  that  I  could  hardly 
make  out  his  answer.  He  seemed  to  think,  how- 
ever, that  bad  as  he  was,  he  was  altogether  too 
good  company  for  you. 

Rich.  He  be  hanged,  the  whining  fool !  What 
did  he  say  about  me,  though,  eh  ? 

Sej.  He  called  you  all  sorts  of  hard  names, 
you  may  be  sure,  and  drew  a  most  graphic  picture 
of  all  your  villanies  and  murders,  both  before  and 
after  your  coronation. 

Rich.  Ah  ?  You  found  it  vastly  amusing,  no 
doubt. 

Sej.  And  after  all,  said  he,  what  did  he  gain 

by  it  ?     After  wading  to  the  throne,  through  the 

blood  of  his  kinsmen,  what  one  solid  comfort  did 
8 


•170  SEJANUS RICHARD  III. 

he  find  there  ?  Did  he  ever  taste  a  meal  in  peace 
from  that  hour  ?  Did  not  the  curses  of  his  sub- 
jects pursue  him  by  day,  and  hideous  dreams 
torment  him  by  night  ?  And  after  a  few  brief 
years  of  turmoil  and  bloodshed,  was  not  that  same 
bauble,  for  which  he  bartered  his  eternal  jewel, 
plucked  from  his  brows  on  the  battle-field  (as  mine 
was),  after  he  had  been  pierced  to  the  heart,  by 
the  very  man  whom  of  all  others  he  most  feared 
and  hated,  and  withal  afiected  to  despise  ?  Was 
not  his  wretched,  misshapen  carcass  treated  with 
scorn  by  his  own  soldiers  ?  flung  ignominiously 
across  the  back  of  a  mule,  and  finally  hid  away 
in  a  dark  corner  of  some  country  church,  whilst 
the  rabble  were  jeering  and  cursing  outside  ? 

Bicli.  Indeed  !  Brother  M.  seems  to  have  gone 
into  all  the  particulars. 

Sej.  But  was  it  not  so  ? 

JRich.  His  statement  is  substantially  correct,  I 
must  say.  My  funeral  was  by  no  means  regal, 
hardly  respectable,  indeed,  in  its  appointments. 
And  yet,  Sejanus,  I  was  a  lucky  dog,  compared 
with  yourself,  in  this  regard.  I  did  have  some 
sort  of  a  resting-place  for  my  remains,  some  sort 
of  a   burial   service   read  over   me,  and   was  not 


SEJANUS — RICHARD  III.  171 

chopped  into  mince-meat  by  my  fellow-townsmen  ; 
eh,  my  boy  ?  Come,  come,  don't  frown  so  ;  no 
oifence  meant.  But  what  else  had  om'  sentimental 
Macbeth  to  say  on  the  occasion  ? 

Sej.  Well,  he  kept  on  moralizing,  for  some 
time,  in  his  usual  lachrymose  vein,  and  concluded 
by  remarking,  "  Well,  well,  Sejanus,  after  all,  I 
can't  help  pitying  the  dog  at  times,  for  between 
ourselves,  notwithstanding  his  affected  bluster  and 
bravado,  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  more  wretched 
spirit  in  all  the  realms  of  darkness." 

Rich.  I  am  vastly  obliged  to  him  for  his  sym- 
pathy, ha,  ha,  ha  !  But  holloa,  what,  in  old  Nick's 
name,  are  they  doing  in  yon  organ  loft  ? 

Sej.  Hush,  hush  !  By  Jove,  what  a  superb 
instrument  ! 

Bich.  Curse  their  voluntaries,  say  I. 

Sej.  Not  in  our  line,  exactly,  to  be  sure. 
Glorious,  though,  isn't  it  ?  Ah,  voices,  too  ? 
Bless  me,  what  a  cluster  of  young  choristers  ! 
Some  rehearsal,  I  suppose.  What  sweet  voices  ! 
There's  harmony  for  you  ! 

Rich.  Oh,  confound  their  caterwauling  !  Come, 
come,  our  time  grows  precious.  There  are  other 
chapels  here,  which  I  suppose  you  will  insist  on 
being  shown  through. 


172  SEJANUS RICHARD    111. 

SeJ.  If  agreeable  to  you,  certainly. 

Bich.  Come  on,  then,  come  on.  Ah,  here's 
a  familiar  spot  to  me.     How  dilapidated,  though  ! 

SeJ.  Whose  shrine  is  this,  pray  ? 

Hick.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Why,  whose  should  it  be, 
but  that  of  our  sainted  brother  Edward  ?  The 
only  one  of  us  all,  I  believe,  who  ever  suffered 
canonization.  Edward  the  Confessor  ;  that  law- 
loving,  priest-ridden  imbecile ;  the  last  of  the 
Saxons,  forsooth  !     You  must  have  heard  of  him. 

SeJ.  Not  that  I  remember.  But  what  a 
splendid  ruin  ! 

Hich,  It  was  a  magnificent  thing  in  my  day. 
Time  and  thieves  seem  to  have  made  sad  havoc 
with  it. 

SeJ.  Exquisite,  exquisite — but  ah,  what  Latin 
epitaph  is  this,  alongside  of  it  ?  Not  remarkably 
elegant,  by  the  way. 

Bich.  That  tells  you  all  about  the  manifold 
virtues  of  Edith,  his  Queen.  A  good,  quiet  sort 
of  a  body,  they  say,  and  a  needlewoman  of  de- 
cided genius.  Ah,  Sejanus,  we  are  in  choice  com- 
pany here.  See  you  yon  pale  wench,  lying  in 
state  on  her  bed  of  stone  ?  That's  Queen  Eleanor, 
wife  of  our  glorious  Edward  ;  old  Ned  Longshanks, 
as  we  used  to  call  him.     There  was  a  princely 


SEJANUS — RICHARD    III.  173 

fellow  for  you,  and  a  fighter  after  Mars's  own 
heart  !  Coriolanus  would  have  found  his  match 
there,  let  me  tell  you.  Ah,  why  couldn't  /  have 
liad  such  a  reign  ?     Well,  well  ! 

Sej.  And  where  may  his  tomb  be  ? 

mdi.  Here,  to  the  right  ;  snug  lodgings,  are 
they  not  ?  And  yonder  hangs  his  good  old  iron 
sword. 

Sej.  Ah  ?     What  a  formidable  weapon  ! 

Rich.  And  his  trusty  shield  by  its  side.  Here's 
another,  too,  of  the  same  princely  stamp  ;  our 
fifth  Harry. 

Sej.  Ah,  where,  where  ? 

Rich.  In  this  sumptuous  tomb  behind  you  ; 
Harry  of  Monmouth.  You  know  his  history, 
then  ? 

Sej.  Oh  yes,  I  have  heard  speak  of  him, 
more  than  once.  Rather  a  wild  youth,  was  he 
not  ? 

Rich.  A  hard  chicken,  truly  ;  sadly  given  to 
sack,  and  to  purse-cutting  ;  he  and  his  fat  friend. 
Had  he  lived,  though,  the  chicken  would  have 
ripened  into  the  most  glorious  old  cock  that  ever 
sat  upon  a  throne.  Poor  lad,  he  had  but  a  short 
time  to  fight  in  ;  long  enough,  though,  to  flutter 
the   Frenchmen    at    Agincourt.      Glory    enough, 


174  SEJANUS — RICHARD  III. 

that,  for  one  ghost.  But  what  have  they  done 
with  his  pretty  Queen,  I  wonder  ?  I  don't  see 
her  monument. 

Sej.  He  found  time  to  marry,  then  ? 

Ricli.  Yes,  and  the  handsomest  woman  of  her 
day,  Catherine  of  France.  A  most  oflf-hand, 
characteristic  courtship  it  was,  too. 

Sej.  Somewhat  in  your  own  style,  I  suppose ; 
but  what  outlandish  piece  of  furniture  is  this, 
pray  ?  More  suited  to  a  kitchen  than  a  chapel, 
I  should  say. 

Rich.  What,  that  chair.?  Speak  respectfully 
of  that  relic,  if  you  please.  That  chair,  Sejanus, 
is  the  very  one  I  sat  in,  at  my  coronation. 

Sej.  Indeed  ? 

Rich.  Even  so  ;  and  many  a  crowned  head 
before  me.  Yes,  two  centuries  before  my  day, 
was  it  brought  here  in  triumph,  by  that  brave 
king  Edward,  of  whom  I  was  speaking  to  you 
just  now,  as  a  memorial  of  his  victories  in  Scot- 
land. 

Sej.  And  this  other  ? 

Rich.  That's  a  stranger  to  me. 

Sej.  Neither  of  them  has  any  superfluous 
beauty  to  boast  of,  I  must  say  ;  {sits.)  nor  com- 
fort either,  as  to  that  matter. 


SEJANUS RICHARD    III,  175 

Rich.  You  would  have  preferred  a  seat  in  a 
Roman  one,  no  doubt. 

Sej.  Come,  come,  Eichard,  don't  revive  that 
subject,  I  beseech  of  you.  By  the  way,  you  never 
told  me  the  meaning  of  all  these  bas-reliefs  round 
us.     What  quaint  old  things  they  are  ! 

Rich.  Pshaw  !  We  can't  stop  to  study  out 
all  that  trash. 

Sej.  Trash  ?  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  some  of 
these  figures  are  full  of  spirit  and  expression. 
What  are  they  intended  to  illustrate  ? 

Rich.  Oh,  nothing  that  would  interest  you,  Se- 
janus  ;  a  parcel  of  absurd  legends,  hatched  in  the 
brains  of  lazy  priests,  and  referring  to  the  adven- 
tures and  miracles  of  our  sainted  brother,  yonder. 
Come,  come,  reserve  your  eye-sight  for  something 
a  little  more  respectable. 

Sej.  As  you  will.  But,  by  Jove,  what 
magnificent  chapel  is  this,  that  we  are  ap- 
proaching ? 

Rich.  Magnificent,  indeed !  Ki^omething  since 
my  time,  evidently. 

Sej.  What  superb  gates  ! 

Rich.  Take  care,  take  care,  ghost ;  here's 
another  step,  here.  {They  enter  Henry  VII.'s 
chapel.) 


176  SEJANUS — RICHARD    III. 

Sej.  Ah,  this  surpasses  all.  Heavens,  what  a 
coup  d'oeil!  One  hardly  knows  where  to  begin, 
in  this  wilderness  of  splendors.  It  would  take  a 
month,  at  least,  to  make  out  that  ceiling,  crowded 
as  it  is  with  images.  Ah,  more  of  those  superb 
columns  ;  such  capitals,  too  !  And  above  all,  this 
wood-work ;  what  exquisite,  exquisite  carving  ! 
I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it  on  earth,  before. 
A  right  royal  mausoleum,  truly  !  Talk  of  the 
splendors  of  our  capital,  forsooth  ! 

Hich.  You  seem  pleased,  brother. 

SeJ.  I  am  indeed  delighted.  But  do  tell  us  ; 
where  are  we,  and  in  whose  honor  is  all  this  mag- 
nificence ?  Those  old  banners,  too,  above  our 
heads,  those  battered  shields  and  helmets,  these 
quaint  armorial  devices,  what  do  they  all  signify  ? 
Emblems  and  trophies,  no  doubt,  of  glorious,  hard- 
fought  fields  ;  but  when,  where,  with  whom  ?  Can 
you  not  explain,  brother  ? 

Hich.  (Aside.)  Out  ui)on  this  untimely  curi- 
osity of  his  !  I  might  have  expected  as  much, 
though. 

SeJ.  This  princely  monument,  too  ;  what  royal 
pair  have  we  here,  reposing  in  these  rich  robes,  on 
this  sumptuous  tomb,  beneath  this  dainty  canopy  ? 
These    statues,   too,    these   crowned   and   twisted 


8EJANUS RICHARD    III.  177 

roses,   what   do  they  tyjjify  ?     Ah,   why  do  you 
start  thus  ? 

Bich.  (Aside.)  Oh,  curse  him,  curse  him,  curse 
him ! 

SeJ.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Wherefore 
do  you  frown  and  mutter  so  ?  Ah  yes,  I  see,  I 
see.  How  could  I  have  been  so  indiscreet  ?  I 
ask  ten  thousand  pardons,  Richard.  I  would  not 
willingly  have  wounded  your  feelings,  I'm  sure. 
Come,  let's  be  off  at  once. 

Bich.  Poh,  poh,  not  at  all.  'Twas  a  mere 
passing  twinge.  I'm  myself  again.  A  right 
princely  tomb,  Sejanus,  as  you  say :  a  little  too 
much  ornament  about  it  for  my  taste  ;  still, 
very  creditable  to  the  artist.  Flattering  like- 
nesses, though ;  especially  that  of  Elizabeth. 
Proud  thing,  she  never  looked  half  so  well  as 
this. 

SeJ.  Here's  a  queer  device,  though,  in  the 
corner ;  a  crown,  surrounded  by  shrubbery.  How 
do  you  interpret  that,  Richard  ? 

Itich.  Some  fling  at  me,  no  doubt ;  a  weak 
invention  of  the  sculptor. 

SeJ.  Ah,  there's  no  end  to  the  splendid  tombs 
here.     But  what  majestic  creature  is  that,  I  won- 
der, to  the  left  of  us  ? 
.      8* 


178  SEJANUS — RICHARD    III. 

Rich.  Queen  Bess,  I'll  swear  to  it,  though  I 
neve  I-  yet  laid  eyes  on  her.     Am  I  not  right  ? 

Sej.  You  are. 

Rich.  And  with  all  her  trinkets  on.  There's 
a  dainty  dish  of  worms'  meat  for  you,  eh,  Se- 
janus  ? 

Sej.  Fie,  fie,  Richard,  don't  be  so  sarcastic. 
Do  let  me  read  this  glorious  inscription.  What  a 
list  of  virtues  and  exploits  we  have  here  !  Noble, 
noble  woman  ! 

Rich.  A  prettily  varnished  narrative,  I  dare 
say.  But  what  the  devil  does  this  mean  ?  Is  it 
possible  that  those  vile  brats  have  been  removed 
hither  ?     Sejanus,  Sejanus. 

SeJ.  Well,  what  is  it  ?  (Aside.)  Bless  me,  how 
furious  he  looks  ! 

Rich.  Translate  that  epitaph,  if  you  please. 

SeJ.  Which  do  you  mean  ? 

Rich.  In  the  corner  here. 

SeJ.  (After  reading  if.)  If  you  insist,  certainly. 
You  are  pretty  roughly  handled  in  it,  though. 

Rich.  Out  with  it,  out  with  it.  (Sejanus 
translates  the  lines.)  And  is  it  possible  that  that 
vile  profligate,  Charles,  has  presumed  to  insult  me 
in  this  open  and  scandalous  manner  ?  Their  per- 
Jidious  uncle,  Richard,  the  usurper.     So,  so  ;  he 


SEJANUS — KICHARD    III.  179 

shall  hear  from  me,  for  this,  depend  upon  it. 
And  you,  Sejanus,  curse  your  impertinent  curi- 
osity, that  has  subjected  me  to  such  vexations. 
Let  us  leave  this  vile  place  forthwith. 

Sej.  Certainly,  certainly.  I  meant  no  harm, 
I  assure  you. 

Bich.  Pshaw !  No  apologies ;  come  away, 
come  away. 

Sej.  Not  quite  so  fast,  though.  I  can't  keep 
up  with  you.  Where,  the  old  boy,  is  he  hurrying 
me  to,  I  wonder  ?  Holloa,  here's  a  fine  group  of 
figures.  What  part  of  the  church  may  this  be  ? 
Kichard,  Eichard,  do  stop  a  moment,  my  brain  is 
in  a  complete  whirl.     Where  are  we  ? 

Rich.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  tell  myself.  Just 
ask  that  old  fellow  with  the  umbrella,  yonder. 
Well,  well,  what  does  he  say,  what  does  he  say  ? 

Sej.  Not  over  civil,  certainly.  A  grunt,  a 
stare,  and  the  two  words,  Poets'  Corner,  were  all 
I  could  get  out  of  him, 

Bich.  Poets'  Corner?  Oh  yes,  yes,  I  re- 
member ;  the  very  spot  that  Kit  Marlowe  was 
growling  to  me  about  the  other  day.  He  seemed 
to  take  it  very  hard,  that  his  ugly  phiz  was  not 
among  the  rest  here.  A  precious  nest  of  them, 
truly  ! 


180  SEJANUS RICHARD    III. 

Sej.  All !     There  he  is,  there  he  is. 

Rich.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Sej.  The  bard  of  bards,  the  greatest  soul  that 
ever  dwelt  in  flesh.  Isn't  he  a  glorious  looking 
fellow  ?  I  wouldn't  have  missed  seeing  him  for 
worlds.  What  are  you  scowling  about,  Kichard  ? 
Is  this  the  way  in  which  you  receive  your  divine 
countryman  ? 

Rich.  Bah,  bah,  bah  !  {Aside.)  Of  all  the 
ghosts  in  the  universe,  the  very  last  I  ever  wish  to 
lay  eyes  on. 

Sej.  How's  that,  how's  that  ? 

Rich.  {Aside.)  But  for  him,  and  his  vile  plays, 
I  might  have  been  almost  forgotten,  by  this  time  ; 
or,  at  least,  have  slumbered  quietly  in  the  pages 
of  dull  historians.  As  to  that  impertinent  epitaph 
in  yonder  chapel,  it  would  in  time  have  crumbled 
into  dust ;  but  now  am  I  doomed  to  an  ignominy, 
as  lasting  as  it  is  world-wide  ;  yes,  insulted,  howled 
at,  cursed  nightly  in  the  play-houses  of  all  lands  ; 
made  a  perfect  bugbear  of ;  a  bye-word  for  all  that 
is  treacherous  and  bloody,  the  earth  over.  No 
doubt  I  shall  be  caricatured  and  massacred,  this 
very  night,  in  at  least  a  score  of  barns,  on  this 
very  island.  Well,  well,  well,  why  grumble  about 
it .''     'Tis  but  a  part  of  the  price  we  villains  must 


SEJANUS RICHARD    111.  181 

pay  for  our  misdeeds  ;  some  starveling  poet  is 
sure  to  overtake  us,  some  creature  whose  very 
existence  we  would  have  ignored  in  the  body,  and 
with  a  few  strokes  of  his  pen,  consigns  us  to  im- 
mortal infamy. 

Sej.  What  are  you  soliloquizing  about  so 
grimly  ? 

Rich.  Oh,  nothing,  nothing.  {Clock  strikes.) 
1  am  really  sorry,  Sejanus,  to  tear  you  away  from 
such  agreeable  company,  but  that  monitor  tells  us 
that  our  hour  is  up,  and  we  must  hence,  hence  to 
our  tortures. 

Sej.  Not   yet,  not    yet,   surely.      I    compared 

chronometers  with  Beelzebub  the  very  moment  we 

left,  and  we  agreed  to  a  hair.     We  have  full  ten 

earthly  minutes  yet  at  our  disposal.     And  while 

I  think  of  it,  Richard,  do  grant  me  one  little  favor 

more. 

Rich.  What  is  it,  what  is  it  ? 

Sej.  Just  fly  over  with  me  to  St.  Paul's.  I 
must  have  one  passing  glance,  before  I  go,  at  the 
interior  of  that  majestic  dome,  and  at  the  monu- 
ments beneath  it. 

Rich.  Oh,  pshaw  !  You  have  had  enough  of 
tombs  for  one  visit. 

Sej.  Come,  come,  do  be  obhging.     I  shall  pro- 


182  SEJANUS — RIAIaRD    III, 

bably  never  trouble  you  with  another  such  request 
again. 

Rich.  Well,  well,  I'll  humor  you.     This  way, 
this  way.  [Exeunt. 


MAKCUS  BRUTUS— JOHN  ADAMS. 

[SCENE— BUNKER  HILL.] 

Bru.  Well,  brother,  the  hour  of  our  departure 
is  approaching.  Let  me  again  express  to  you  the 
admiration  and  delight  with  which  this  visit  has 
been  attended.  I  have  but  one  cause  of  regret, 
indeed  ;  that  we  may  not  longer  protract  it,  and 
that  I  must  leave  so  much  unseen.  I  should  have 
liked,  I  confess,  to  have  flown  over  to  the  Pacific, 
and  called  at  your  new  possessions  there  ;  to  have 
traced  that  iron  road  that  is  to  unite  the  two 
oceans  ;  to  have  explored  those  famous  mines  that 
are  destined  to  work  such  a  revolution  in  earthly 
affairs  ;  those  coasts,  that  are  so  soon  to  be  the 
centre  of  a  world-wide  commerce.  It  would  have 
gratified  me,  also,  to  have  remained  longer  at  your 
seat  of  government,  and  to  have  watched  its 
workings.  Need  I  tell  you,  too,  how  reluctantly 
I  turned  my  back  on  Niagara,  and  its  majestic 
music  ?     Well,  well,  let  mo  be  thankful  for  what 


184  MARCUS    BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS. 

I  have  seen,  and  reserve  these  other  privileges  for 
some  future  visit. 

Ad.  1  am  right  glad,  Marcus,  that  you  feel  so 
well  paid  for  your  trouble. 

Bru.  A  thousand  fold.  Great  as  my  expecta- 
tions were,  glowing  as  your  accounts  were,  the 
reality  far  outstrips  them  all.  I  had  no  conception 
whatever  of  the  extent  and  the  resources  of  the 
Republic.  And  as  to  your  Constitution,  brother, 
beautiful  and  lucid  as  have  been  the  explanations 
of  it,  so  often  made  to  me  by  brothers  Jay,  and 
Madison,  and  Marshall ;  graphic  as  have  been  the 
narratives  of  our  dear  brother  Hamilton,  concern- 
ing its  formation,  and  the  debates,  toils,  perils, 
that  accompanied  it ;  yet,  when  I  come  to  see  the 
glorious  instrument  itself  in  operation,  I  feel  as  if 
the  half  had  not  been  told  me.  I  confess  I  am 
lost  in  wonder,  alike  at  the  colossal  scale  on  which 
it  is  constructed,  the  beauty  and  solidity  of  the 
workmanship,  the  promptness,  economy  and  ease, 
with  which  it  performs  its  labors,  and  emphati- 
cally, with  the  divine  strength  which  it  manifests 
in  every  part.  Every  other  system  of  earthly  gov- 
ernment, that  I  have  ever  heard  or  read  of,  seems 
to  me  most  bungling  and  inefficient  in  compari- 
son.     All    honor   and    praise   to    its    illustrious 


MARCUS  BRUTUS — JOHN  ADAMS,      185 

founders,  and  to  you,  my  dear  friend,  as  one  of  the 
master  builders. 

Ad.  Tlianks,  thanks,  Marcus  ;  such  a  tribute, 
Croiu  so  true  a  patriot,  is  most  grateful  to  my 
feelings,  I  assure  you. 

Bru.  I  speak  warmly,  brother,  for  I  feel 
deeply.  Oh,  why  could  I  not  have  had  such 
co-laborers,  have  achieved  a  similar  success  for 
our  poor  Rome  ? 

Ad.  We  tried  our  best,  certainly;  nor  have 
any  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  our  work,  so  far. 

Bi'u.  I  was  about  to  add,  brother,  that  the 
experiences  of  the  last  day  or  two  have  been  es- 
pecially delightful  to  me  ;  our  visit  to  your  own 
homestead  ;  (may  the  graces  and  the  virtues  ever, 
as  now,  adorn  and  bless  it  !)  our  pilgrimage  to 
Plymouth,  and  Concord,  and  Lexington,  and  other 
holy  spots  in  your  annals  ;  our  meditations  at 
Marshfield  ;  our  charming  sojourn  at  Old  Harvard, 
with  brother  Walker  ;  the  innumerable  objects  of 
interest  that  you  have  shown  and  explained  to  me 
in  this  beautiful  city  beneath  us,  the  institutions 
dedicated  to  commerce,  science,  art,  charity,  many 
of  them  perfect  novelties  to  me,  both  in  concep- 
tion and  execution  ;  I  say  again,  the  instruction 
and  pleasure  I  have  derived  from  all  these  things, 


186  MARCUS    BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS. 

I  can  neither  exaggerate  nor  forget :  especially, 
under  the  guidance  of  such  a  cicerone.  I  fear  I 
have  somewhat  taxed  your  patience,  though,  at 
times,  with  my  many  and  minute  inquiries. 

Ad.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  On  the  contrary, 
I  have  been  quite  as  much  interested  as  yourself 
in  our  visit ;  especially  the  Boston  part  of  it.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  surprised  I  have  been  at  the 
improvements  that  have  taken  place  here,  in  the 
little  quarter  of  a  centuiy  that  has  elapsed  since 
my  departure  from  earth  ;  or  how  infinitely  more 
brilliant,  varied  and  animated,  this  very  picture 
at  our  feet  has  become.  I  find  far  more  and  finer 
ships  in  our  harbor ;  superb  steamers,  too,  from 
our  own,  and  from  foreign  ports ;  wonderful  in- 
ventions and  triumphs  of  genius,  in  yonder  Navy 
Yard  ;  stately  houses,  in  our  immediate  neighbor- 
hood, not  one  of  which  was  standing  in  my  day. 
Then  the  introduction  of  these  Cochituate  waters, 
a  noble  enterprise  :  I  cannot  turn  my  head,  indeed, 
without  seeing  new  churcli-s  and  factories,  and 
turnpikes  and  villas,  and  gardens  ;  long  lines  of 
dwellings,  and  docks  and  warehouses,  filled  with 
the  merchandise  of  all  chmes;  and  then,  the 
amazing  multipUcation,  in  these  few  years,  of 
objects  of  utihty  and  elegance,  in  all  the  shops  we 
have   visited  ! 


MARCUS   BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS.  187 

Bru.  Wonderful,  wonderful !  By  the  way, 
brother,  not  the  least  consi^icuous  and  interesting 
among  them,  was  that  magnificent  copy  of  your 
own  works,  as  edited  by  your  kinsman,  Mehercule, 
what  loould  the  clerk  have  said  had  he  known 
who  it  was  that  was  asking  about  them  ! 

Ad.  A.  gratifying  circumstance  that,  Marcus. 
But,  above  all,  my  friend,  these  magical  wires, 
threading  all  these  streets,  charged  with  their 
mysterious  messages  ;  and  these  hardly  less  won- 
derful railways  that  we  see  radiating  in  all  direc- 
tions, with  their  huge  depots,  and  their  enormous 
trains  of  passengers  and  merchandise,  coming  and 
going  continually.  Ah,  there  we  have  the  steam 
whistle  again.  So  far  from  being  wearied  with 
this  scene,  every  moment  reveals  some  new  feature 
in  it.  I  shall  turn  my  back  upon  it  quite  as  re- 
luctantly as  yourself,  I  assure  you. 

Bru.  Well  may  you,  well  may  you.  Most 
fortunate  of  mortals,  and  of  spirits  !  Ah,  how 
different  was  my  earthly  career  from  yours,  bro- 
ther !  What  a  contrast !  Only  look  at  it  for  a 
moment.  I  died,  by  my  own  hand,  on  the  field 
of  battle,  ere  I  had  reached  the  maturity  of  my 
powers  ;  died  full  of  grief  and  bitterness  ;  feeling 
that  the  glorious  cause  for  which  I  had  made  such 


188  MARCUS    BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS. 

struggles  and  sacrifices,  was  irredeemably  lost  ; 
that,  with  me,  perished  all  the  hopes  of  the  Ee- 
public,  and  that  never  more  would  Eome's  streets 
be  trod  by  freemen.  Even  as  I  lay  gasping  in 
the  last  agonies,  what  sad  visions  passed  before 
me  ;  what  images  of  coming  horrors  ;  what  forms 
of  bloodstained  kings,  in  long  and  dismal  pro- 
cession ;  and  at  its  close  him  whom  I  had  slain, 
pointing  at  them,  and  beckoning  with  a  triumphant 
scorn  upon  his  ghastly  features.  Oh,  the  anguish 
of  that  moment  !  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
it.  And  now  I  return  to  Rome,  after  the  lapse  of 
ages,  and  I  find  all  these  gloomy  forebodings  ful- 
filled, an  hundred-fold ;  I  find  every  where  the 
traces  of  these  same  imperial,  ay,  and  papal 
wretches  (with  some  few  honorable  exceptions, 
brother,  in  either  roll),  and  of  the  misery  and 
ruin  that  have  followed  in  their  train.  I  find 
a  scene  of  desolation  and  decay,  alike  in  the  cha- 
racter and  fortunes  of  my  countrymen,  as  universal 
as  humiliating  ;  and  no  ray  of  hope  to  relieve  the 
picture.  You,  brother,  died  in  peace,  full  of  years 
and  honors,  surrounded  by  loving  and  revering  kin- 
dred ;  died  after  seeing  your  efforts  for  freedom 
crowned  with  success  unparalleled,  and  the  wildest 
visions  that  your  youth  painted  of  your  country's 


MARCUS    BRUTUS JOHN    ADAMS.  189 

prosperity,  grow  pale  and  dim  before  the  magni- 
ficent reality  ;  died  after  having  received  the  high- 
est offices  a  grateful  people  could  bestow,  and 
after  seeing  them  transferred  to  your  illustrious 
son  ;  died  on  the  very  anniversary  of  the  republic 
that  you  founded  ;  nay,  on  the  very  day  of  jubilee 
itself,  at  the  very  moment  when  thousands  were 
pronouncing  your  eulogy,  or  invoking  God's  bless- 
ing upon  you,  in  all  the  churches  of  the  land.  And 
now,  you  revisit,  with  me,  the  scene  of  your  earthly 
labors,  and  find  already,  in  five  and  twenty  little 
years,  every  where,  a  growth  and  a  prosperity,  far 
before  your  most  sanguine  expectations  ;  find  a 
future  of  inconceivable  power  and  glory  in  store 
for  your  America.  I  say  again,  brother,  look  at 
these  two  pictures,  and  mark  the  bitter  contrast 
between  our  destinies. 

Ad.  Too  true,  Marcus,  too  true. 

Bru.  Yes,  brother  ;  clearly  as  I  now  understand 
the  causes  of  this  difference  ;  readily  as  I  can  re- 
concile them  to  the  divine  wisdom  and  goodness, 
I  yet  cannot  help  exclaiming  at  times,  in  the 
bitterness  of  my  heart.  Why  were  these  things 
so  ?  Why  was  it,  that  of  two  patriots,  alike 
truthful,  earnest,  fervent — alike  fortified  by  the 
teachings  of  reason  and  experience,  yet  the  career 


190  MARCUS    BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS. 

of  one  should  have  been  rewarded  with  such  a 
crown  of  glory,  while  the  other  was  doomed,  at 
almost  every  step,  to  encounter  disappointment 
and  disaster  ? 

Ad.  But,  brother,  will  this  contrast  of  des- 
tinies hold  good  unto  the  end  ?  Will  this  vision 
of  power  and  glory  to  come,  ever  be  realized  in 
America  ?  On  the  contrary,  were  I  to  revisit  this 
spot  with  you,  twenty  centuries  hence,  might  I  not 
find  a  picture  here,  as  sad  as  that  which  hath 
lately  so  grieved  your  spirit  at  Rome  ?  May  not  the 
course  of  this  nation  have  been  run,  long  ere  that 
time, — this  happy  family  of  states  have  been  broken 
up  and  destroyed, — the  very  land  itself  laid  waste 
by  barbarian  hordes  ?  Who  shall  say  ?  Who 
shall  say  ?  A  sad  thought,  certainly,  that  this 
dear  city  that  I  now  gaze  on  with  such  joy  and 
pride,  may,  long  ere  that  day,  have  become  as 
silent  and  desolate  as  Nineveh  herself;  that  this 
beautiful  bay,  alive  with  industry,  that  sends  daily 
forth  its  winged  representatives  to  every  port  of 
earth,  may,  ere  then,  have  shared  the  fate  of 
Tyre,  or  Carthage  ;  this  holy  hill  have  become 
another  Palatine  in  its  sorrows  ;  this  monument 
itself,  in  whose  pleasant  shade  we  are  now  stand- 
ing, the  loftiest  ever  reared  by  mortals  to  valor 


MARCUS    BRUTUS JOHN    ADAMS.  191 

and  patriotism,  if  not  overthrown,  at  least,  over- 
looldug  a  scene  of  desolation,  its  foundations  buried 
in  weeds,  the  very  path  leading  to  it  beset  by 
brigands,  prowling  for  the  lives  of  such  adven- 
turous travellers  as  may  fondly  seek  to  explore  its 
site.  Extravagant  as  this  j^icture  seems,  Marcus, 
who  knows  but  what  this  same  destiny  is  in  store 
for  our  poor  land  ? 

Bru.  Not  so,  not  so  ;  or  if  America's  death- 
hour  must  come  at  last,  not  in  twenty  centuries, 
brother,  no,  nor  in  fifty  :  a  hundred  ages,  at  least, 
of  glorious  life  are  before  her  ;  a  career,  as  utterly 
without  precedent  in  human  annals,  as  has  been 
hitherto  every  circumstance  of  her  origin  and 
progress.  Who  shall  presume  to  paint  that  future, 
to  body  forth  the  wonders  it  is  to  witness  ;  the 
multiform  triumphs  of  industry,  the  peaceful  vic- 
tories of  art  and  science,  the  fair  cities  now  slum- 
bering in  the  womb  of  time,  and  the  smiling  fields 
that  are  to  environ  them  ?  I  am  not  the  poet,  or 
the  prophet,  brother,  to  dwell  upon  a  theme  like 
this.  Your  own  Webster,  indeed,  might  fitly  have 
declaimed  upon  it  ;  your  own  Homer,  yet  unborn, 
will  sing  its  praises  worthily  in  the  coming  ages. 
But  I  feel,  that  for  no  less  a  consummation  were 
Jill  these  mighty  preparations  made,  that  we  see 


192      MAKCUS  BRUTUS JOHN  ADAMS. 

around  us,  and  in  the  past.  For  no  less  an  end 
were  these  majestic  valleys  rolled  out,  these  mineral 
treasures  stored  away,  these  noble  rivers  set  in 
motion,  these  inland  seas  whose  borders  already 
sparkle  with  shining  cities.  For  no  less  an  end 
than  this,  came  forth  the  Mayflower  and  her  holy 
band  of  Pilgrims,  who,  with  prayers  and  hymns, 
planted  these  colonies  ;  for  no  less  an  end  was 
summoned  that  immortal  First  Congress  in  which 
you,  brother,  played  a  part  so  illustrious ;  no 
consummation  less  magnificent,  could  worthily 
crown   the  labors  of  a  Washington. 

Ad.  God  grant  that  it  may  prove  so  !  But, 
my  dear  Marcus,  while  you  have  been  thus  lavish 
of  your  eulogies,  and  of  these  brilliant  anticipa- 
tions, not  a  word  has  escaped  your  lips,  during  our 
visit,  in  the  way  of  rebuke  or  warning.  And  yet, 
you,  like  myself,  must  have  seen  many  things  to 
annoy  and  grieve  you.  Nay,  I  have  caught  you 
once  or  twice  frowning,  in  spite  of  yourself  Come, 
brother,  let  us  compare  notes  on  these  points,  for 
one  little  moment,  before  we  take  our  flight. 

Bru.  I  confess,  my  pleasure  has  been,  at  times, 
somewhat  marred  by  certan  disagi-eeable  occur- 
rences ;  but  as  your  guest,  I  hardly  thought  it 
courteous  to — 


MARCUS    BRUTUS JOHN    ADAMS.  193 

Ad.  Why  not  ?  Why  not  ?  Speak  out,  my 
dear  friend,  speak  out. 

£ru.  Well,  with  your  leave,  I  will  glance  very 
briefly  at  one  or  two  topics  of  annoyance.  On 
the  momentous  and  painful  subject  of  slavery,  bro- 
ther, I  have  nothing  to  say,  except  to  express  my 
confidence,  that  it  is  not  destined  to  imperil  your 
blessed  Union,  but  that  the  disease  will,  in  God's 
good  time,  be  safely  eradicated  from  the  body 
politic. 

Ad.  No  doubt,  no  doubt ;  that  is,  if  we  deal 
with  it  as  wise  physicians,  not  as  mountebanks  ; 
as  brethren,  not  as  fanatics.  But  I  must  not  in- 
terrupt you. 

B7'u.  One  thing,  then,  that  has  especially  dis- 
appointed, nay,  grieved  me,  has  been  our  visit  to 
Mount  Vernon.  I  was  really  shocked  to  see  such 
an  air  of  neglect  and  decay  there,  such  an  absence 
of  appropriate  embellishments,  such  a  paucity  of 
visitors,  and  those  apparently  so  apathetic,  and 
above  all,  a  mausoleum  so  insignificant  and  taste- 
less. Why,  brother,  I  can  hardly  recall  one,  on 
our  Appian,  so  utterly  without  claims  to  regard. 
I  expected  to  find  a  most  stately  monument  there, 
rich  in  inscriptions  and  bas-reliefs ;  at  least,  some 
image  in  bronze  or  marble,  worthy  of  the  illus^ 
9 


194     MARCUS  BRUTUS — JOHN  ADAMS. 

trious  patriot.  I  took  it  for  granted,  that  this 
sacred  spot  was  in  the  possession  of  the  Govern- 
ment, and  that  they  had  long  ago  summoned  the 
highest  genius  of  the  land,  in  every  walk  of  art, 
to  go  thither,  and  fitly  to  perpetuate  such  virtues 
and  achievements.  I  looked  for  shrines,  to  which 
pilgrims  might  resort  on  festal  days  in  high  pro- 
cession ;  chapels,  where  patriotism  might  put  up 
appropriate  vows  and  prayers  ;  the  pleasant  music 
of  fountains,  too,  and  whispering  groves,  whose 
grateful  shade  might  invite  the  wanderings  of  the 
statesman  and  the  scholar :  but  no,  not  one  of 
these  tributes  did  I  find  there,  and  I  repeat  it,  I 
was  both  amazed  and  grieved  at  such  evidences  of 
national  indifference,  nay,  ingratitude.  Pardon 
my  plainness. 

Ad.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all  :  every  word  you 
have  uttered  is  just,  and  such  neglect  is  utterly 
disgraceful  to  the  nation. 

Bru.  Another  thing  that  I  was  right  sorry  to 
see,  was  while  we  were  at  Washington  ;  I  refer  to 
the  undignified  behavior  of  some  of  your  members 
of  Congress,  and  more  particularly,  those  of  the 
lower  house.  They  seemed  to  me  to  have  no  fit 
appreciation  of  their  responsibilities,  or  of  the  lofty 
character  of  the  trusts  reposed  in  them.     One  rep- 


MARCUS    BRUTUS JOHN    ADAMS.  195 

resentative,  indeed,  was  guilty  of  an  outrage, 
which,  to  say  truth,  I  hardly  dare  mention  to 
you. 

Ad.  Ah,  what  was  it,  what  was  it  ? 

Bru.  Will  you  believe  me,  when  I  tell  you 
that  in  the  midst  of  that  most  interesting  debate 
on  the  subject  of  your  Foreign  Relations,  of  which 
•  we  heard  a  portion,  the  person  in  question  actually 
drew  from  the  folds  of  his  tunic,  a  huge  uncouth- 
looking  object,  which  he  straightway  proceeded  to 
cut  into  slices,  and  devour  ?  Yes,  brother,  on 
the  very  floor  of  the  house.  I  was  perfectly 
thunderstruck. 

Ad.  1  saw  it,  I  saw  it.  The  wretch  you  speak 
of,  actually  consumed  the  greater  part  of  a  Bo- 
logna sausage.  I  was  inexpressibly  disgusted, 
brother  ;  and  what  mortified  me  most  of  all  was, 
that  the  house  quietly  submitted  to  the  affront, 
instead  of  ordering  the  sergeant-at-arms  to  expel 
the  offender  forthwith. 

Bru.  I  never  witnessed  a  thing  of  the  kind 
before,  I  must  say,  in  this  or  any  other  world. 
Our  Eoman  Senate,  in  its  worst  days,  would  not, 
for  a  moment,  have  tolerated  such  a  violation  of 
decorum. 

Ad.  Well,  well,   it  must  have  been  done   in 


196  MARCUS    BRUTUS JOHN    ADAMS. 

some  sudden  fit  of  lunacy,  to  which  this  poor 
mortal  is,  doubtless,  subject  ;  and  so  no  notice  was 
taken  of  the  affair.  Else  should  I  tremble  for  the 
Republic,  indeed. 

Bru.  There  were  other  members,  too,  who 
seemed  to  me  most  uncouth  creatures,  alike  in 
their  costume,  manners,  and  language.  Several 
were  actually  sitting  with  their  feet  upon  theii; 
desks,  talking  loudly,  reading  letters  and  papers, 
paying  no  attention  whatever  to  the  public  busi- 
ness, or  respect  to  the  presiding  officer.  Many 
of  them,  moreover,  were  incessantly  ejecting  from 
their  mouths,  streams  of  a  certain  black  unsavory 
looking  liquid  (what,  I  know  not),  in  all  directions  ; 
not  even  sparing  the  beautiful  pillars  of  the  hall 
from  their  assaults.  These  perpetual  showers,  I 
must  confess,  ajipeared  to  me  a  most  unfit  accom- 
paniment to  the  solemn  duties  of  law-givers. 

Ad.  Yes,  indeed,  and  a  most  vile,  pernicious 
habit.  This,  my  dear  friend,  as  well  as  the  other 
abominations  to  which  you  have  alluded,  were,  I 
need  not  tell  you,  utterly  unknown  to  our  First 
Congress.  I  have  been  exceedingly  annoyed  by 
them,  and  have  at  times,  drawn  most  unfavorable 
omens  from  them.  Thank  heaven,  though,  these 
ojBfenders  are,  after  all,  a  very  small  minority,  in 


MAKCUS    BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS,  197 

either  house,  and  as  brother  Winthrop  told  us,  are 
daily  diminishing  in  numbers. 

Bru.  While  I  think  of  it,  brother,  your  Su- 
preme Court  also  disappointed  me.  I  speak  not 
of  the  Judges,  but  of  the  Hall  of  Judgment 
itself.  You  may  consider  it  an  old-fashioned 
Roman  prejudice ;  but  I  certainly  expected  to  find 
a  far  more  spacious  and  stately  chamber,  fitly 
adorned  with  allegoiical  figures,  and  the  images  of 
the  illustrious  dead  ;  more  circumstances  of  dig- 
nity and  awe,  accompanying  the  administration  of 
justice  ;  yes,  a  far  more  rigorous  attention  to  cos- 
tume and  ceremonial.     Am  I  right,  or  not  ? 

Ad.  Perfectly  so  ;  the  idea  of  hiding  away 
the  most  august  tribunal  of  earth,  in  such  a  barn 
of  a  place  as  that  ;  it  is  alike  niggardly  and  dis- 
graceful to  us. 

Bru.  While  I  am  finding  fault,  brother,  let 
me  add,  that  your  capitol  itself,  with  all  its  showy 
outside,  seemed  to  me  to  be  wanting  in  majesty 
and  repose,  and  the  objects  of  art,  in  and  about  it, 
with  few  exceptions,  to  be  unworthy  of  the  place 
they  occupied,  and  the  events  they  illustrated. 
The  whole  town,  indeed,  lacked  that  picturesque- 
ness  and  impressiveness,  that  my  imagination  (un- 
reasonably, no  doubt)  had  ascribed  to  it.     And  as 


198  MARCUS   BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS, 

to  its  society,  brother,  I  must  again  plead  guilty 
to  great  disappointment.  Our  visit  at  the  Presi- 
dent's was,  on  the  whole,  far  from  gratifying  to 
me.  Not  but  what  we  found  some  charming  mor- 
tals there,  men  and  women  of  grace  and  culture  ; 
but  far,  far  more  rude,  and  selfish,  and  turbulent 
ones.  There  was,  indeed,  throughout  the  enter- 
tainment, a  lack  of  ease,  and  elegance,  and  dis- 
cipline, that  quite  shocked  my  antique  notions  of 
propriety.     I  speak  plainly,  you  see. 

Ad.  And  justly. 

Bru.  But,  brother,  that  which  has  most  struck 
me,  after  all,  during  our  visit,  has  been  the  almost 
entire  absence,  throughout  the  land,  of  historical 
monuments,  and  of  the  images  of  the  illustrious 
heroes  and  fathers  of  the  republic.  I  have  been 
utterly  surprised  to  see  so  few  of  them,  either  in 
your  dwellings,  churches,  halls  of  learning  and 
of  legislation,  or  in  the  public  squares  and  gardens 
of  your  cities.  I  can  recall  but  one  colossal  sta- 
tue, indeed,  worthy  of  the  name,  at  the  seat  of 
government  itself  (a  grand  one,  truly,  and  which 
our  own  Forum  might  have  been  proud  of)  ;  but 
one,  at  Baltimore  ;  but  one  (of  our  excellent  bro- 
ther Penn)  at  the  thriving  Philadelphia  ;  not  one, 
in  the  gay  and  opulent  New  York ;  and  strange 


MARCUS  BRUTUS — JOHN  ADAMS.      199 

to  say,  only  one  here  in  your  own  classic  Boston, 
and  that  not  out  under  the  sky,  where  the  children 
of  men  may  gaze  freely  upon  it.  To  think  that  in 
all  this  mighty  nation,  and  that,  too,  after  more 
than  a  half  century  has  elapsed  since  his  depar- 
ture, there  is  not  a  single  equestrian  statue  of  the 
Pater  Patriae  to  be  found  !  Why  is  this,  brother  ? 
Why  has  one  not  been  erected,  long  ago,  in  that 
beautiful  Common  ?  Why  are  you  not  there, 
with  all  the  honors,  and  your  illustrious  kinsmen 
and  compeers  ?  James  Otis,  too,  the  lion-hearted 
orator,  of  whom  you  were  speaking  to  me,  the 
other  day,  with  such  enthusiasm  ;  why  are  not  the 
boys  playing,  this  very  afternoon,  about  his  pe- 
destal ? 

Ad.  Why  not,  indeed  ?  Ah,  Marcus,  the  true 
answers  to  these  questions  reflect  but  little  credit 
on  the  nation.  There  is  no  excuse  whatever  for 
such  negligence — such  ingratitude.  Time,  money, 
materials,  artists,  heroes,  are  abundant  enough, 
Heaven  knows  ;  but,  alas  !  that  true  love  of  art, 
which  can  alone  call  into  being,  and  multiply 
such  images,  abides  not  in  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
They  are  quite  too  much  taken  up  with  things 
material  and  useful  to  find  room  for  the  spiritual 
and  beautiful.     Even  the  merchant-princes  of  this 


200  MARCUS   BRUTUS JOHN    ADAMS 

dear  old  patriot-haunted  city,  good  men  and  true 
though  they  be,  full  of  generous  and  noble  im- 
pulses, are  yet  quite  too  little  impressible  by  works 
of  genius,  too  little  recognize  their  divine  meaning 
and  mission.  To  all  other  claims  upon  their 
purses  will  they  respond  more  liberally  than  to 
those  of  Art.  This  very  monument,  brother, 
could  it  speak,  would  confirm  my  assertion.  Its 
secret  history  is  any  tiling  but  pleasant  to  dwell 
upon  ;  so  many  delays  and  heart-burnings,  and 
sneers  of  the  ilHberal,  and  vain  appeals  to  patriotic 
feeling  were  there,  between  corner-stone  and  cap- 
stone. "So  Brother  Webster  was  telling  me  but 
recently. 

Bru.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  As  a  work  of  art, 
however,  brother,  I  must  say  it  has  disappointed 
me  greatly. 

Ad.  Ah,  how  so  ? 

Bru.  Well,  it  seems  to  me  sadly  wanting,  both 
in  elegance  and  in  expression. 

Ad.  A  plain  shaft,  truly.  By  the  way,  Mar- 
cus, did  you  hear  that  flij)pant  criticism  upon  it 
at  the  very  moment  that  we  alighted  here,  evi- 
dently by  a  mortal  of  Britannic  extraction  ?  Why, 
the  varlet  actually  mistook  it,  he  said,  for  a  shot- 
tower,  or  the  chimney  of  some  factory. 


MARCUS  BRUTUS— JOHN  ADAMS.      201 

Bru.  There  is  too  much  foundation  for  the 
sneer,  certainly. 

Ad.  And  yet  this  very  plainness  and  massive- 
ness  were  thought  at  the  time,  I  remember,  best 
to  typify  the  unadorned,  solid  virtues  of  those 
whom  it  commemorates. 

Bru.  Still,  brother,  there  might  have  been 
some  little  light  shed  upon  its  history,  I  think,  by 
word,  or  image. 

Ad.  Yes  ;  but  does  not  every  school-boy  be- 
tween the  seas  know  that  history  by  heart  ?  Your 
own  speech  over  Caesar  is  not  more  familiar  to 
them. 

Bru.  Strangers  do  not,  however.  Besides,  the 
obelisk  does  not  harmonize,  to  my  eye,  with  the 
superb  picture  around  it.  And  if  so  now,  how 
much  more  glaring  will  the  contrast  be,  when  a 
few  more  centuries  will  have  added  a  thousand- 
fold to  the  beauty  and  brilliancy  of  the  scene. 

Ad.  Well,  well,  the  men  of  those  days  must 
put  up  another  here,  that  will  better  accord  with 
the  genius  of  the  place. 

Bru.  They  will,  undoubtedly  ;  and  a  master- 
work  of  Art  it  will  be,  too.  Still,  my  dear  friend, 
I  would  not  be  understood  as  speaking  disrespect- 
fully of  a  monument,  so  associated  with  words  of 
9* 


202  MARCUS   BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS. 

power  and  wisdom,  as  this  is.  The  most  delight- 
ful and  exciting  part  of  our  visit  I  have  never 
mentioned  to  you,  after  all. 

Ad.  Ah.^ 

Bru.  I  mean  the  perusal  of  those  magnificent 
discourses  which  you  got  for  me  yesterday  at 
Brother  Ticknor's.  Do  you  know  I  was  bending 
over  them  all  night,  so  intensely  interested  was  I. 
I  refer  not  merely  to  those  especially  illustrative 
of  this  spot,  but  to  the  majestic  Plymouth  dis- 
course ;  and,  grandest  of  them  all,  to  that  oration 
in  honor  of  yourself,  and  your  brother-patriot. 
Most  fortunate  of  men,  as  in  all  things  else,  so  in 
having  such  a  eulogist  !  I  know  not  where  to 
find  its  equal  in  our  own,  or  modern  times.  Cer- 
tainly nothing  approaching  to  it  was  ever  heard  in 
the  Athenian  Agora,  or  in  our  own  Forum. 

Ad.  I  think  so.  Some,  though,  would  call 
this  very  extravagant  praise,  brother. 

Bru.  Posterity  will  sanction  it,  depend  upon 
it,  and  will  pronounce  that,  for  grasp  of  thought, 
universality  of  sympathy,  orderly  arrangement  of 
topics,  clearness  of  exposition,  freedom  from  all 
affectation  of  brilliancy  or  originality, — but,  above 
all,  for  fervent,  outgushing  patriotism,  and  glorious 


MAECUS   BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS.  203 

outbursts  of  passion,  the  orations  of  Daniel  Web- 
ster stand  alone  in  earthly  eloquence. 

Ad.  I  believe  it ;  I  believe  it.  Brother  Fox, 
by  the  way,  expressed  himself  to  me  on  this  sub- 
ject the  other  day,  in  almost  the  same  language  ; 
Brother  Calhoun,  likewise,  notwithstanding  his 
earthly  prejudices  and  jealousies.  But,  Marcus, 
the  sun  is  fast  approaching  the  horizon. 

Bru.  True,  true  ;  and  I  must  not  delay  my 
flight  another  moment. 

Ad.  Are  your  engagements  so  very  pressing 
then  ? 

Bru.  They  are,  indeed.  Early  to-morrow  I 
have  my  report  to  present. 

Ad.  Ah,  yes.  You  were  on  the  point  of  tell- 
ing me  about  it  when  that  beautiful  meteor  dis- 
tracted our  attention. 

Bru.  The  matter  is  simply  this.  The  people 
of  the  two  hemispheres  of  the  star  where  I  now 
reside  have  long  had  an  unpleasant  quarrel  on 
their  hands. 

Ad.  Some  boundary  business,  I  suppose. 

Bru.  The  same  ;  and  they  have  done  me  the 
honor  of  making  me  umpire  between  them.  An 
arduous  task,  brother,  but  of  course  there  was  no 
declining  it.      The  papers  are  all  ready  at  last, 


204  MARCUS    BRUTUS — JOHN    ADAMS, 

however,  and  to-morrow  I  am  to  read  my  decision 
before  the  Commissioners  of  the  respective  parties. 
I  have  worked  pretty  faithfully  in  the  matter,  I 
assure  you,  and,  indeed,  was  right  glad  to  have  a 
few  days'  recreation  with  you  before  finally  settling 
the  controversy.  But  come,  brother,  I  should  like 
very  much  to  read  to  you  some  passages  from  the 
Report  in  question,  and  have  your  opinion  concern- 
ing them  ;  that  is,  if  compatible  with  your  other 
stellar  arrangements. 

Ad.  With  all  my  heart.  I  should  love  to  see 
the  document.  I  am  curious,  too,  to  know  how 
far  you  have  applied  the  doctrines  of  earthly  inter- 
national law  to  the  points  in  discussion. 

Bru.  You  will  be  surprised  to  see  how  freely  I 
have  used  them.  And  yet,  why  surprised  ?  Are 
not  equity  and  good  sense  the  same  things  now 
that  they  have  been,  time  out  of  mind,  the  uni- 
verse over  ? 

Ad.  True,  true. 

Bru.  But  come,  let's  be  off.  You  have  no  ob- 
jections, I  suppose,  to  stopping  a  few  moments  at 
Arcturus.  I  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  Brother 
Cassius. 

Ad.  Certainly  not ;  at  your  service. 

[Exeunt. 


PRAXITELES— CANOVA. 

[SCENE— VATICAN.] 

Can.    A  nice  little  collection,  isn't  it,  brother  ? 

Prax.  Superb,  superb  !  I  begin  to  grow  weary, 
though,  I  must  say.  Pray,  how  many  more  miles 
of  it  are  there  ? 

Can.  Well,  we  are  nearly  through  the  sculp- 
tures ;  and  then,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  got  some  of 
the  divinest  pictures  to  show  you  that  ever  mortal 
or  immortal  eyes  feasted  on.  But  we  have  the 
day  before  us,  and  so  let's  take  things  coolly.  Ah, 
here  we  are  at  the  cabinet  of  the  Apollo.  Come, 
what  say  you  to  sitting  down  quietly  before  his 
godship  for  a  few  moments  ?  We  might  be  in 
worse  company,  I  assure  you. 

Prax.    Right  willingly. 

[They  enttr  the  cabinet. 

Prax.  Heavens  and  earth  ! 

Can.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 


2D6  PRAXITELES — CANOVA. 

Prax.  Is  it  possible  ?  Can  I  be  so  deceived  ? 
Surely — 

Can.' (Aside.)  What  excites  him  so,  I  wonder  ? 

Prax.  And  in  such  wonderful  preservation, 
too  !     The  same,  the  very  same,  by  Jove  ! 

Can.  Why,  brother,  what  has  put  you  in  such 
a  fever  all  of  a  sudden  ? 

Prax.  Oh  nothing,  nothing.  I  have  only  run 
against  an  old  acquaintance  here  ;  that's  all. 

Can.  What,  do  you  mean  to  say  that — 

Prax.  I  mean  to  say  that  yonder  divinity  is 
my  own  workmanship. 

Can.  Body  of  Bacchus,  you  don't  tell  me  so  ! 
Oh,  how  delighted  I  am  to  hear  it.  Come  to  my 
arms,  my  dear  ghost  !  come  to  my  arms  !  Bravo, 
bravo,  bravo  ! 

P7'ax  (Disengaging  himself.)  This  is  really 
very  gratifying,  Canova  ;  though  it  took  me  a  lit- 
tle by  surprise,  I  confess. 

Can.  Ah,  Praxiteles,  if  you  only  knew  what 
we  moderns  thought  of  this  same  statue — 

Prax.  Indeed  ? 

Can.  Yes,  truly.  Only  one  other  stone  on 
earth  has  ever  created  such  a  furore  among  the 
children  of  men,  and  that  we  always  supposed  was 


PRAXITELES — CANOVA.  207 

yours  ;  but  now,  to  claim  this  other  masterpiece — 
but  are  you  quite  sure  there  is  no  mistake  here  ? 

Prax.  None  whatever,  my  friend.  And  now 
that  I  look  at  it  again,  I  can  recall  all  the  partic- 
ulars of  its  history. 

Can.  Ah,  do  tell  us  ;  do  tell  us. 

Prax.  Yes,  though  more  than  twenty  centuries 
have  gone  to  their  graves  since  then. 

Can.  But  where  was  this  ? 

Prax.  And  yet  it  looks  as  fresh  as  if  it  had 
left  my  studio  but  yesterday. 

Can.  You  don't  answer  me,  brother. 

Prax.  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons.  At  Athena 
— at  Athens,  of  course. 

Can.  Yes  ;  but  when,  where  ?  Who  ordered 
it,  and  how  was  it  received  by  your  brother-artists  ? 
A\id,  above  all,  what  did  you  charge  the  lucky  dog 
of  a  purchaser  ?     A  round  sum,  I  warrant  you. 

Prax.  It  was  not  purchased  by  an  individual, 
but  was  ordered  expressly  by  the  citizens  of  Tene- 
dos,  as  one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  portico  of  their 
famous  temple.  It  was  well  received,  certainly, 
even  by  the  fastidious  Athenians.  Lysippus  him- 
self, I  remember,  though  never  very  partial  to  my 
perfonnances,  had  a  good  word  to  say  for  it.  One 
circumstance  connected  with  it  I  shall  never  forget. 


208  PRAXITELES — CANOVA, 

Can.  Ah,  what  was  that  ? 

Prax.  Alexander  the  Great  looked  in  at  my 
studio  the  very  day  before  it  was  shipped  for  its 
place  of  destination,  and  complimented  me  right 
warmly  on  the  occasion,  I  hardly  dare  tell  you 
the  number  of  talents  he  offered  me  for  it,  or  his 
regret  when  he  found  that  it  was  already  bespoken. 

Can.  No  wonder. 

Frax.  He  had  no  eyes,  indeed,  for  any  thing 
else  ;  though  the  Phryne  herself  was  standing 
right  alongside  of  it.  Ah  dear,  how  vividly  the 
scene  rises  before  me  !  I  had  not  been  in  a  very 
amiable  mood,  all  the  morning,  I  remember,  and, 
to  confess  the  truth,  had  thrown  my  mallet  at  the 
head  of  a  saucy  student,  hardly  a  moment  before 
the  prince  entered.  After  long  gazing  in  silence 
upon  the  statue,  he  suddenly  burst  forth  in  his 
impetuous  way,  with  a  long  passage  from  Homer's 
hymn  to  the  god.  Admirably  recited  it  was,  too. 
Can.  An  eccentric  person,  was  he  not  ? 

Prax.  Very,  very  !  After  finishing  the  poetry, 
he  shook  me  most  warmly  by  the  hand  ;  and  on 
discovering  that  the  work  was  not  for  sale,  he  in- 
sisted on  a  copy,  at  my  earliest  leisure  ;  and  with- 
out looking  at  any  thing  else  in  the  studio,  retired 


PRAXITELES — CANOVA.  209 

as  abruptly  as  he  entered.     We  have  never  met 
since. 

Can.  You  sent  him  the  copy,  of  course, 
Prax.  No  ;  it  was  never  executed,  either  by 
myself,  or  by  my  son,  Cephissodorus  ;  though  I 
gave  him  positive  instructions  so  to  do  on  my 
death-bed.  But  really,  Canova,  it  is  unspeakably 
gratifying  to  me  to  find  the  work  in  such  admira- 
ble preservation,  and,  as  you  have  intimated,  still 
in  such  high  favor  with  the  critics. 

Can.  It  is,  indeed.  As  I  said  before,  your 
Venus  alone  has  more  admirers  ;  though  I  myself 
wouldn't  exchange  it  for  a  hundred  such  goddesses. 
And  so  the  glory  of  our  Museum  has  found  an 
owner,  at  last  ;  and  thus  does  Fame,  as  ever,  ren- 
der justice,  however  tardily,  unto  her  children  ! 
Ah,  Praxiteles  !  accustomed  as  you  are  to  admira- 
tion, even  your  ghostly  head  would  be  turned  a 
little,  I  fear,  were  you  to  know  how  many  thou- 
sand fine  things  are  continually  said  about  this 
statue  ;  how  many  brilliant  verses,  in  all  tongues, 
have  been  written  upon  it  ;  how  many  lovely 
women  have  been  bewitched  by  it  ;  how  many  vol- 
umes of  criticisms  and  conjectures  learned  anti- 
quaries have  devoted  to  it. 


210  PRAXITELES — CANOVA. 

Prax.  Is  it  possible  ?  Pray,  how  came  it 
here  ?    I  should  like  to  trace  its  history,  I  confess. 

Can.  Well,  there  is  no  very  satisfactory  infor- 
mation on  the  jDoint.  The  most  commonly  received 
story  is,  that  om-  good  king  Nero,  while  travelling 
in  Greece,  some  eighteen  hundred  years  since,  saw 
the  piece  in  question,  with  several  other  capo- 
d'opere  of  your  school,  and  was  so  charmed  with 
them,  that  he  took  possession  forthwith,  without 
ever  stopping  to  inquire  into  prices  or  ownerships, 
and  had  them  transferred  to  his  villa  at  Antium. 
At  all  events,  your  god  was  dug  up  there,  about 
four  centuries  ago,  and  received  with  great  enthu- 
siasm on  his  re-appearahce  ;  and  if  the  honest 
truth  were  told,  has  probably  far  more  idolaters  to- 
day than  ever  he  had.  But  for  more  minute  par- 
ticulars, Praxiteles,  allow  me  to  refer  you  to  our 
dear  brother  Winckelmann. 

Prax.  Indeed  !  I  have  heard  of  the  ghost, 
but  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him. 
And  so  one  monarch  basely  stole  what  another 
vainly  sought  to  purchase.  But  where  may  this 
Antium  have  been  ? 

Can.  Antium  ?  Why,  you  surely  know  the 
place.  For  a  long  time  one  of  the  most  charming 
towns  upon  our  seaboard,  and  the  pet  residence  of 


PKAXITELES CANOVA.  211 

many  emperors.  Of  late  centuries,  to  be  sure,  it 
has  been  a  mere  heap  of  rubbish  ;  beneath  which, 
my  friend,  this  beautiful  creation  of  yours  lay  for- 
gotten for  ages.  But  now,  thank  heaven,  the  god 
has  come  forth  again  to  taste  his  own  glorious  sun- 
light, and  to  gladden  us  all  with  his  presence. 

Prax.  A  strange  history,  certainly. 

Can.  All  these  marble  brethren  about  us, 
could  they  speak,  would  have  as  strange  ones  to 
teU. 

Prax.  No  doubt.  But,  Canova,  where  are  all 
the  modern  works  ?  Surely  these  magnificent 
halls  are  not  entirely  devoted  to  us  ancients  ? 

Can.  They  are,  indeed,  with  one  slight  excep- 
tion. 

Prax.  What  exception  ? 

Can.  Well,  you  must  know  that  that  dear  old 
soul,  Pius  VII.,  during  whose  pontificate  I  had 
my  studio  in  the  metropolis,  took  quite  a  fancy  to 
me,  and  to  my  performances. 

Prax.  I  can  readily  believe  that,  brother. 

Can.  And  in  consideration  of  my  long  and 
faithful  services  in  the  cause  of  art  (so  he  was 
pleased  to  express  himself),  ordered  certain  pieces 
of  mine  to  be  bought,  and  bestowed  upon  them 
the  unprecedented  honor  of  a  place  in  this  other- 


212  PRAXITELES — CANOVA. 

wise  purely  classical  collection.  I  hardly  deserved 
Buch  a  compliment,  but  was  very  much  gratified 
by  it,  I  confess. 

Frax.  Indeed  ;  where  are  they — where  are 
they  ? 

Can.  In  a  cabinet  hard  by  ;  but  really,  Praxi- 
teles, I  hardly  dare  venture  to  show  them  to  so 
illustrious 

Frax.  Poh,  poh  !  I  insist  upon  seeing  them. 

Can.  As  you  will,  brother.  This  way,  if  you 
jjlease.     {They  enter  the  cabinet  of  the  Perseus.) 

Frax.  Bravo,  bravissimo  ! 

Can.  Ah,  that's  very  polite  in  you,  Praxiteles  ; 
but  I  am  fully  aware,  my  friend,  of  the  wide  gulf 
between  us. 

Frax.  Pshaw  !  don't  talk  so.  An  admirable 
figure,  truly  ;  full  of  life,  and  grace,  and  expres- 
sion. You  ought  to  be  proud  of  it,  indeed  !  These 
Wrestlers,  too,  are  they  yours  ? 

Can.  They  are. 

Frax.  Capital — capital  !  The  idea  of  apolo- 
gizing for  such  works  as  these  !  Why,  my  friend, 
they  would  have  drawn  crowds  about  them  at 
Delphi,  or  at  Olympia.  That's  not  our  Parian 
marble,  by  the  way  .'* 


PRAXITELES — CANOVA.  213 

Can.  No  ;  that  comes  from  Carrara  :  an  in- 
ferior article,  certainly. 

Prax.  Still,  a  very  pretty  quality  of  stone. 

Cam.  But,  Praxiteles,  you  must  not  consider 
these  my  chefs-d'ceuvres,  thus  honored  as  they 
are  by  his  Holiness.  Ah,  no  !  I  should  have  been 
far  more  pleased  to  have  shown  you  my  Dancers, 
and  my  Graces,  and  my  Magdalene  ;  or  even  my 
Pauline,  far  inferior,  as  she  must  needs  be,  to  your 
glorious  Phryne, 

Prax.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  But  I  should 
dearly  love  to  see  the  works  you  speak  of  Are 
they  in  Rome  at  present  ? 

Can.  Only  the  Pauline.  The  rest  are  scattered 
far  and  wide.  But,  brother,  you  never  told  me 
what  you  considered  your  own  master-pieces. 
Pray,  had  you  any  other  studio  than  that  at 
Athens  ? 

Prax.  Oh,  yes  ;  I  had  another  at  Corinth,  and 
a  most  delightfully  situated  one  at  Sicyou,  not  for 
from  that  of  Lysippus.  My  principal  one,  however, 
was  at  Tarentum,  where  I  spent  the  latter  half  of 
my  life,  and  where,  with  my  two  sons,  I  executed 
some  of  my  most  important  works. 

Can.  Asking  pardon  for  the  inquiry,  Praxi- 
teles, were  you  long  in  the  flesh  ? 


214  PRAXITELES — CANOVA. 

Prax.  Threescore  years  to  a  day.  Not  a  long 
life,  brother,  but  quite  a  busy  oij^.  At  one  time, 
I  had  nearly  forty  students  under  me. 

Can.  Is  it  possible  ?  You  must  have  turned 
out  a  deal  of  work. 

Prax.  Yes,  indeed.  Not  a  town  in  Greece 
was  there  of  any  consequence,  or  island  in  the 
jEgean,  but  what  had  some  god,  or  goddess,  of 
mine  in  it.  Then  we  were  overrun  with  orders  at 
home,  and  from  Sicily.  My  Hours  and  Graces 
were  called  for  continually,  I  remember  ;  not  to 
speak  of  several  complete  sets  of  the  Muses.  At 
one  time  we  had  no  less  than  half  a  dozen  Colossi 
under  our  supervision  in  as  many  seaports. 

Can.  Dio  mio  ! 

Prax.  Then  our  historical  monuments  were 
not  few,  and  some  of  them  very  massive  and  elabo- 
rate ;  to  say  nothing  of  thousands  of  sarcophagi, 
and  urns  and  busts  without  number. 

Can.  You  didn't  confine  yourself  to  statues, 
then  ? 

Prax.  No,  indeed  !  Our  relief-work  was  the 
larerest,  and  most  lucrative  branch  of  our  labors  ; 
friezes,  pediments,  votive  tablets,  fancy-pieces  of 
all  sorts  and  dimensions  ;  yes,  league  after  league 
of  sacred  and  triumphal  processions.     As  I  8»ifl 


PRAXITELES — CANOVA.  215 

before,  there  was  not  a  temple  or  palace  in  Greece 
worth  speaking  of  but  what  had  something  in  it, 
or  on  it,  from  my  studios. 

Can.  You  amaze  me.  I  used  to  think  myself 
somewhat  of  a  worker  here  below,  but  nothing, 
nothing  compared  to  this.  And  is  it  possible,  that, 
of  all  this  world  of  beauty  and  majesty,  only  some 
half  a  dozen  representatives  have  descended  to  us  ; 
and  of  these,  not  one,  till  to-day,  satisfactorily  au- 
thenticated !  Still,  my  dear  friend,  you  have  not 
answered  my  question.  Which  one  of  these  mul- 
tiform works  of  yours  did  you  set  most  store  by  ? 
Which  had  most  of  your  heart  and  soul  impressed 
upon  it  ? 

Prax.  Well,  let  me  see.  There  was  a  group 
of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  which  I  executed  for  a  dear 
Athenian  friend,  that  I  confess  I  was  quite  proud 
of  It  cost  me  a  world  of  thought,  I  know,  at  the 
time,  and  of  all  my  performances,  seemed  to  me 
best  to  express  my  ideas  of  the  beautiful.  I  allude 
more  particularly  to  the  head  of  the  Psyche. 
That,  and  a  group  of  Sappho  and  Phaon,  were  de- 
cidedly my  favorites. 

Can.  And  what  became  of  that  ? 

Prax.  It  was  sent  to  Miletus.  But  my  most 
popular  work  was  the  Cnidian  Venus.     It  made 


216  PRAXITELES — CAKOVA. 

quite  a  sensation  in  its  day.  By  the  way,  is  that 
one  of  the  half  dozen  fortunate  survivors  that 
you  were  speaking  of  just  now  ? 

Can.  There  seems  to  be  some  doubt  on  that 
point.  There  is  a  sad  wreck  of  a  statue  in  the  Lou- 
vre, with  a  divine  beauty  still  lingering  over  it,  that 
our  Parisian  brethren  call  by  that  name  ;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  some  of  our  Florentine  friends 
(as  I  think,  most  unreasonably)  persist  in  giving 
it  to  your  Venus  de'Medici.  For  myself,  Praxi- 
teles, I  fear  the  dear  goddess  is  for  ever  lost  to 
earth ;  most  probably,  shattered  to  fragments, 
ages  since.  She  may  possibly,  though,  like  your 
Apollo,  be  slumbering  in  some  unexplored  villa  in 
the  neighborhood  ;  for  that  she  was  stolen  and 
brought  hither  by  some  one  or  other  of  our  deified 
emperors,  I  have  no  doubt.  But  brother,  as  I 
said  before,  I  am  perfectly  amazed  at  the  extent 
and  variety  of  your  labors.  As  an  interpreter  of 
the  beautiful,  your  fame  is,  indeed,  world-wide  ; 
but  I  had  no  idea  that  you  had  done  such  wonders 
in  the  heroic  style.  Did  you  work  much  in 
bronze  ? 

Prax.  Not  much  ;  nor,  indeed,  in  the  heroic. 
That  department  was  far  more  worthily  filled  by 
Lysippus.     I  made  an  Aratus.  to  be  sure,  for  the 


PRAXITELES CANOVxV.  217 

Sic3^onians,  which  was  well  received  ;  and  a  colossal 
Epaminondas  for  the  Thebans,  which  some  indis- 
creet admirers  used  to  speak  of  in  the  same  breath 
with  Phidias's  Themistocles.  Decidedly  the  most 
gratifying  occurrence  in  my  professional  career  was 
an  invitation  from  the  Athenians  to  restore  a  Peri- 
cles of  his. 

Can.  Ah  ! 

Prax.  Yes.  It  had  long  been  one  of  the  orna- 
ments of  the  Lyceum,  but  the  citizens  seemed  to 
think  that  it  did  not  occupy  a  sufficiently  con- 
spicuous position.  Owing  to  the  carelessness  of 
the  workmen,  who  were  accordingly  employed  in 
moving  it  to  a  more  eligible  one,  it  had  a  bad  faU, 
and  was  seriously  injured.  I  need  not  tell  you 
with  what  fear  and  trembling  I  entered  upon  my 
task,  or  of  the  little  satisfaction  it  gave  me  when 
finished.  Yes,  I  may  as  well  own  it,  Canova,  I 
did  sacrifice  altogether  too  much  to  the  Graces. 
My  heroes,  the  best  of  them,  had  quite  too  effemi- 
nate an  air.  My  attempts  at  the  subhme  were 
seldom  very  successful.  The  poorest  thing  I  ever 
did  was  a  Hercules  in  Repose.  That  work,  I  most 
sincerely  trust,  is  no  longer  extant. 

Can.    I  have  never  heard  of  it.     By  the  way, 

did  you  paint  many  of  your  statues  ? 
10 


218  PRAXITELES — CANOVA, 

Prax.  Oh  yes,  to  please  customers  ;  never  wil- 
lingly, however :  never  any  of  my  best  efforts. 
Like  the  rest  of  my  brethren,  I  was  compelled  at 
times  to  sacrifice  my  own  ideas  to  national  preju- 
dices, or  to  the  whims  of  individuals.  Some  of  my 
goddesses  had  rosy  cheeks,  and  glass  eyes  in  their 
heads,  and  golden  ornaments  around  their  necks. 
I  always  looked  upon  it  as  an  abomination,  how- 
ever. 

Can.  How  was  it  with  your  Apollo  ?  Did  any 
paint  or  jewelry  ever  profane  that  divine  image  ? 

Prax.  Never,  never  ! 

Can.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so.  You 
must  know  that  there  has  been  an  attempt  here  in 
town  lately  to  revive  the  wax-work  style  of  sculp- 
ture ;  in  a  quarter,  too,  where  I  should  least  have 
expected  it, 

Prax.  Indeed  ! 

Can.  Yes ;  and  by  a  former  favorite  pupil  of 
mine,  for  whose  talents  I  have  the  highest  respect. 
I  am  very  sorry  to  see  him  in  this  false  position. 

Prax.  So  am  I,  I  have  no  faith  in  such  inno- 
vations. Let  each  Muse  attend  to  her  own  proper 
duties.  Surely  the  domain  of  each  is  broad  and 
fair  enough  to  labor  in,  without  wantonly  invading 


PRAXITELES — CANOVA.  219 

that  of  her  neighbor.  But,  brother,  isn't  it  time 
to  be  in  motion  again  ? 

Can.  One  little  question,  while  I  think  of  it, 
Praxiteles.  What  was  your  last  performance  on 
earth  ? 

Prax.  Well,  strange  to  say,  I  was  making  a 
design  for  an  urn,  which  was  to  have  held  the 
ashes  of  a  friend  of  mine,  but  in  which,  as  it 
turned  out,  my  own  were  deposited. 

Can.  That  is  curious  ;  and  what  is  equally  so, 
a  somewhat  similar  accident  befell  me. 

Prax.  Ah  !  how  so  ?  Where  are  your  ashes, 
brother  ? 

Can.  My  bones  repose  just  where  I  wished 
them  to  be,  in  my  native  village,  alongside  of  my 
excellent  mother's  ;  but  my  heart  is  in  far  more 
sumptuous  quarters, — namely,  in  the  very  monu- 
ment (and,  though  I  say  it,  Praxiteles,  a  most 
magnificent  one)  which  I  designed  in  honor  of  my 
illustrious  brother-artist,  Titian. 

Prax.  A  strange  coincidence,  certainly.  But 
the  sun  is  getting  low,  brother. 

Can.  True  ;  and  we  want  a  good  light  for  the 
Transfiguration.  Ah,  Praxiteles,  now  look  out  for 
a  feast.     While  we  cheerfully  accord  the  palm  to 


220  PRAXITELES CANOVA. 

you  classical  lads,  in  the  department  of  sculpture, 
we  defy  you  to  show  pictures  with  us. 

Prax.  I  have  heard  great  things  of  your  paint- 
ings. I  have  never  met  with  Apelles'  equal, 
though,  thus  far,  I  must  say. 

Can.  Well,  well,  we  shall  see.  But  stop  a 
moment. 

Prax.  Ah,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Can.  I  was  thinking  how  we  should  best  dis- 
pose of  our  time,  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Let's 
see ;  we  shall,  of  course,  have  to  postpone  the 
Cartoons,  and  the  Stanze,  and  the  Loggie,  to  some 
other  visit.  We  had  better  go  at  once,  then,  and 
take  a  good  look  at  the  Transfiguration,  and  the 
St.  Jerome  ;  after  which,  we  will  stop  for  a  little 
minute,  at  the  head  of  the  southern  staircase,  to 
pay  our  respects  to  the  beautiful  face  of  dear 
brother  Raphael  ;  and  then,  if  you  say  so,  we  will 
fly  over  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and  refresh  our- 
selves with  a  strawberry  ice,  and  a  half  hour's  re- 
pose, and  still  have  time  enough  to  look  in  at 
brother  Crawford's,  and  one  or  two  other  studios. 
Would  this  be  agreeable  to  you,  Praxiteles  ? 

Prax.  Perfectly  so. 

Can.  I  confess,  I  should  like  to  have  your 
opinion    of   brother  C.'s  Washington   Monument. 


PRAXITELES — CANOVA.  221 

I  had  a  cursory  glance  at  it,  the  other  day,  and  it 
really  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  performance  worthy 
of  the  very  best  days  of  Greek  art.  To  be  sure, 
it  is  rather  more  in  brother  Pbidias's  walk,  than 
yours  ;  but  there  are  a  great  many  bright  things 
there,  besides,  in  clay,  plaster,  and  marble,  and 
among  them,  some  most  lovely  children.  His 
Children  in  the  Wood,  I  am  sure,  you'll  be  charmed 
with. 

Prax.  I  dare  say.  But  what  is  the  subject, 
gad  or  frolicsome  ? 

Can.  I'll  tell  you  the  story  as  we  go  along.  If 
you  don't  pronounce  it  one  of  the  most  delicious 
bits  of  pathos  ever  put  in  marble,  I  shall  be  dis- 
appointed. After  that,  we'U  look  in  upon  brother 
Gibson  for  a  moment.  He  always  has  something 
good  at  his  fingers'  ends.  And  then,  perhaps,  we 
will  call  on  sister  Hosmer. 

Prax.  And  so  you  have  women-sculj^tors  in 
town,  have  you  ? 

Can.  Well,  she  is  the  only  one,  I  believe,  at 
present. 

Prax.  An  Italian,  I  suppose. 

Can.  No,  an  American,  and  a  right  bright  lit- 
tle body,  I'm  told  ;  full  of  enthusiasm,  full  of 
talent.     They  tell  me,  moreover,  that  she  has  been 


222  PRAXITELES — CANOVA. 

lately  putting  a  Morning  Star  in  stone,  that  is,  in- 
deed, a  shining  light.  I  am  quite  anxious  to  see 
it.  And  so  you  had  no  lady-carvers  in  Greece,  in 
your  day,  Praxiteles  ? 

Prax.  I  beg  your  pardon.  There  were  at  least 
half  a  dozen  of  celebrity,  when  I  was  in  ths  body. 
Ah,  dear  ! 

Can.  Why,  what  makes  you  sigh  so  ? 

Prax.  I  was  thinking,  Canova,  of  a  dear  little 
daughter  of  mine,  who,  had  she  remained  on  earth, 
would  have  been  very  illustrious  in  that  way. 
Poor  child  !  she  never  saw  her  seventh  birth-day. 
You  will  hardly  beUeve  me,  brother,  when  I  tell 
you  that,  at  the  age  of  four,  she  executed,  in  lard, 
an  admirable  statue  of  a  favorite  kitten  of  hers. 
Oh,  how  her  mother  went  on  about  it ! 

Can.  That's  not  so  very  strange,  though.  I 
myself,  at  four,  carved  a  very  fair  lion,  in  butter. 

Prax.  The  deuce  you  did  ! 

Can.  Yes,  and  lono;  before  that,  had  modelled 
a  capital  mud-lobster.  Ah  !  how  well  I  remember 
the  circumstance,  and  the  bewildered  look  of  the 
old  nurse,  who,  with  uphfted  palm,  was  in  the  very 
act  of  administering  chastisement  to  the  naughty 
child,  that  ivould  persist  in  playing  in  the  dirt, 
when  this  wonderful  performance  caught  her  eye. 


PRAXITELES — CANOVA.  223 

Dio  mio,  how  she  grinned  !     You  don't  remember 
your  first  attempt,  do  you,  Praxiteles  ? 

Prax.  I  do  not,  indeed.  But  come,  come, 
brother,  we  are  wasting  daylight.  We  have  got 
to  be  here  again,  to-night,  you  know,  with  our 
torches. 

Can.  True,  to  meet  brothers  Flaxman  and 
Thorwaldsen.     You  know  them  both,  of  course. 

Prax.  Flaxman  I  know,  and  love.  The  Dane 
I  have  not  yet  seen. 

Can.  You'll  be  pleased  with  him,  depend  upon 
it.  A  right  royal  ghost  and  sculptor  he  is.  The 
world,  it  is  true,  was  rather  slow  to  find  him  out, 
at  first ;  but  he  is  now,  by  common  consent, 
placed  at  the  head  of  us  moderns. 

Prax.  You  surprise  me  ;  I  thought  you  occu- 
pied that  position. 

Can.  Ah,  no,  no,  no  !  To  be  sure,  there  was  a 
time  when  I  should  have  hated  to  acknowledge  as 
much  ;  but,  thank  heaven,  I  have  long  since  out- 
grown all  such  pitiful  jealousies.  Yes,  Praxiteles, 
his  is  a  far  deeper,  and  more  thoughtful  nature 
than  mine,  and  his  foncy  a  far  more  fruitful  one. 
There  is,  moreover,  a  loftiness  and  purity  in  some 
of  his  works,  quite  without  parallel,  I  think,  in 
teiTCstrial  art. 


224  PRAXITELES CANOVA. 

Prax.  Indeed,  I  shall  be  most  proud  to  meet 
him.  Between  ourselves,  too,  I  am  rather  curious 
to  hear  brother  Flaxman's  criticism  on  the  Apollo. 

Can.  Yes,  but  you  mustn't  betray  the  author- 
ship. 

Prax.  Trust  me  for  that.  But  come,  Canova, 
we  have  not  another  moment  to  lose.  Pray,  where 
are  these  same  wonderful  pictures,  that  you  were 
bragging  about  so  ? 

Can.  This  way,  brother,  this  way.         [Exeunt. 


PETRONIUS— D'ORSAY, 

[SCENE— METROPOLITAN  HALL.] 

lyOr.  Well,  PetroniuSj  how  have  you  been 
pleased  with  the  concert  ? 

Fet.  Delighted,  dehghted  ! 

D'Or.  A  superb  orchestra,  is  it  not  ? 

Pet.  It  is,  indeed  ;  and  the  leader  the  most 
magnificent  individual  I've  seen  for  many  a  day. 
Pray,  what  countryman  is  he  ? 

D'07\  A  compatriot  of  mine  ;  quite  a  celebrity 
in  his  way,  and  an  undoubted  original  ;  perhaps 
the  rarest  combination  of  the  enthusiast  and  the 
impostor  now  extant  on  earth  ;  sublimely  vulgar, 
inexhaustibly  impudent,  delightfully  good-natured, 
and,  withal,  a  person  of  brilliant  abilities.  I  con- 
fess, I  admire  the  creature  amazingly.  How  ad- 
mirably, by  the  way,  he  conducted  his  forces 
through  the  mazes  of  that  charming  Prima  Donna 
10* 


226  PETRONius — d'orsay. 

waltz  !  You  seemed  to  enjoy  that  piece  vastly, 
brother. 

Pet.  Indeed,  I  did  !  Such  a  complete  dedica- 
tion of  the  whole  man — hands,  feet,  arms,  legs, 
head,  and  baton,  to  the  task  before  him,  was  de- 
lightful to  behold.  The  air  itself,  too,  was  most 
agreeable. 

D'Or.  A  sweet  melody,  and  one  that  is  making 
its  way  rapidly  all  over  the  globe.  But  what  did 
you  think  of  that  symphony  from  Beethooven  ? 
Glorious  !  was  it  not  ? 

Pet.  Well,  so  far  as  I  could  follow  it,  I  was 
gratified.  Recollect,  brother,  that  this  was  the  first 
time  I  ever  heard  it  ;  besides  that,  many  of  the 
instruments  were  perfect  novelties  to  me.  The 
andante  movement  I  enjoyed  exceedingly. 

D'Or.  Admirably  rendered  ;  and  the  allegro, 
still  finer.  You,  of  course,  noticed  the  way  in 
which  that  air  was  transferred  from  the  violins  to 
the  violas,  and  so  down  to  the  double-basses  ? 

Pet.  I  did  ;  the  effect  was  quite  startling. 
Such  a  twanging  of  strings  I  never  heard  before, 
on  or  off  the  earth. 

D'Or.  An  eflect,  to  be  sure,  which  the  com- 
poser never  contemplated  ;  still,  the  transition  was 
most   gracefully   done,  while  the  execution  itself 


PETRONIUS — d'orsay.  227 

was  the  most  surprising  exhibition  of  musical  gym- 
nastics I  ever  witnessed.  But  the  American  Quad- 
rille, Petronius,  what  say  you  to  that  ?  Between 
ourselves,  brother,  I  thought  you  seemed  a  little 
bewildered,  not  to  say  alarmed,  towards  the  close 
of  that  piece. 

Pet  Well,  to  be  candid,  I  was  somewhat  so. 
What  with  the  sudden  uprising  of  the  audience, 
the  deafening  yells  and  cheers  in  all  quarters,  the 
waving  of  hats,  slapping  of  rattans  against  the 
panels,  poking  of  umbrellas,  and  what  not,  I  was 
quite  taken  aback,  I  confess.  And  then  those 
shoutings  behind  the  scenes,  and  those  tremendous 
and  mysterious  hangings  and  poundings,  by  way 
of  finale  !  Is  it  strange.  Count,  that  I  was  a  little 
agitated  ?     Dio  mio,  what  a  performance  ! 

D'Or.  An  extraordinary  musical  hash^  cer- 
tainly. Not  a  very  savory  one  to  me,  I  must 
say.  None  of  our  national  airs  in  either  hemis- 
phere are  very  feHcitous  efforts  ;  but  as  to  Yankee 
Doodle,  I  have  no  patience  with  it.  Had  the  com- 
poser's object  been  to  disgust  and  appal  the  enemy, 
well  and  good  ;  but  the  idea  of  cheering  on  one's 
fellow-soldiers  to  victory,  by  such  a  villanous  com- 
bination of  sounds — bah,  bah.     How  a  great  nation 


228  PETRONius — d'orsay. 

could  have  adopted  it  for  a  moment,  is  to  me 
amazing. 

Pet.  And  yet,  what  a  hold  it  seems  to  have  on 
the  popular  heart ! 

D'Or.  So  it  appears. 

Pet.  I  actually  thought  the  soles  of  my  next 
neighbor's  boots  would  have  given  way,  so  vehe- 
mently did  he  express  his  enthusiasm.  It  was  a 
great  relief  to  me,  I  assure  you,  when  they  struck 
up  the  Katydid  Polka. 

D'Or.  Ah  yes — a  queer  thing  that ;  somewhat 
apart,  perhaps,  from  the  mission  of  music,  this 
stepping  aside  to  imitate  beasts  and  insects  ;  very 
cleverly  done,  nevertheless. 

Pet.  I  liked  the  piece,  I  must  say.  As  to  the 
imitation,  not  having  the  pleasure  of  the  insect's 
acquaintance,  it  was  of  course  thrown  away  upon 
me.     The  audience  were  tickled  with  it,  evidently, 

D'Or.  I  see  by  the  programme,  that  the  Cricket 
Mazurka,  and  the  Mosquito  Quick-Step  are  in  ac- 
tive preparation.  But,  Petronius,  the  Christmas 
Symphony  ;  candidly  now,  what  sort  of  an  impres- 
sion did  that  make  upon  you  ? 

Pet.  What,  the  Santa  Claus  ? 

D'Or.  The  same. 

Pet.  Well,  I  hardly  know  how  to  answer  yon. 


PETRONIUS — d'orsay.  229 

As  I  said  before^  so  many  of  the  instruments  and 
musical  effects  were  entire  strangers  to  me,  that  I 
was  quite  taken  by  surprise.  The  opening  solo  on 
the  trumpet  I  remember  with  great  satisfaction  ; 
and  several  of  the  passages  for  the  flute  and  the 
hautboy,  were  positively  delicious.  The  Synopsis 
bewildered  me  somewhat,  I  must  say ;  as  did  the 
most  unexpected  introduction  of  those  penny-drums 
and  trumpets.  On  the  whole,  I  was  highly  grati- 
fied, and  withal,  considerably  mystified. 

D'Or.  My  dear  fellow,  that  was  no  time  to  puz- 
zle over  the  Synopsis.  You  should  have  trans- 
lated for  yourself,  as  you  went  along.  Afterwards, 
at  your  leisure,  you  might  have  compared  your  own 
version  with  the  explanations  of  the  composer  ;  and 
I  have  no  doubt,  you  would  have  been  surprised  at 
the  resemblance  between  the  two. 

Fet.  Very  likely.  As  it  was,  I  had  a  double 
translation  before  me,  first  of  the  music  into  Latin, 
and  then  of  the  Latin  into  English. 

D'Or.  No  joke,  that ;  you  certainly  earned  all 
the  pleasure  you  got. 

Pet.  But  how  did  you  like  the  Symphony, 
yourself  ? 

D'Or.  Exceedingly.  It  is  a  novelty,  certainly, 
in  the  musical  world,  violating,  as  it  does,  without 


230  PETRONIUS — D'oRSAY. 

scruple,  all  the  old-fashioned  rules  for  making  Sym- 
phonies ;  rules,  in  my  humble  opinion,  far  more 
venerable  than  rational.  As  a  piece  of  musical 
painting,  I  was  charmed  with  it ;  full  of  fine 
touches,  and  dramatic  effects.  The  episode  of  the 
perishing  traveller  was  finely  conceived,  and  the  in- 
terpretation of  it  by  the  orchestra,  admirable,  in- 
deed. I  never  heard  such  playing  on  earth,  before. 
I  should  have  preferred  the  non-introduction  of  the 
toy-trumj)ets,  I  confess  ;  and  a  somewhat  less  close 
imitation  of  nature,  in  some  passages  ;  but  with  all 
its  eccentricities  and  blemishes,  and  its  too  scornful 
violation  of  the  conventionalities  of  the  art,  I  liked 
it  amazingly,  and  should  have  been  proud  to  have 
been  the  author  of  it.  But  the  gem  of  the  even- 
ing, after  all,  brother,  was  that  Solo  by  Bottesini. 
I  am  sure  you  must  have  been  charmed  with  it. 

Pet.  I  was  alike  delighted  and  astounded. 
What  lightning-like  rapidity  of  movement  !  What 
a  range  of  notes  !  What  infinite  variety  of  ex- 
pression ! 

D'Or.  Those  passages  in  harmonics  were  divine. 
How  he  contrives  to  extract  such  ethereal  sounds 
from  such  a  monster  of  an  instrument,  is  to  me  in- 
conceivable. 

Pet.  There's  magic  in  it,  depend  upon  it.     He 


PETRONItrS — D*ORSAY.  231 

})Ositivel y  makes  a  human  being  of  the  instrument  ; 
makes  it  sigh,  sob,  groan,  howl,  sing,  laugh,  exult. 

D'Ot.  Yes,  and  as  you  say,  with  what  amazing 
rapidity  and  precision  does  he  sweep  along,  from 
those  deep  thunder-tones,  up' to  the  veriest  peep  of 
the  sparrow. 

Fet.  I  hardly  know  which  to  admire  most,  the 
genius  that  could  have  devised  such  a  piece  of 
workmanship,  or  that  which  extracts  from  it  such 
startling  effects. 

D'Or.  But,  brother,  they  are  about  closing  the 
gates.  It  is  high  time  for  us  to  be  sauntering 
down  towards  the  Astor  House, 

Pet.  True,  true.  Bless  me,  what  a  fine  night ! 
How  Jupiter  sparkles  !  One  wouldn't  think,  to 
look  at  him,  that  they  were  suffering  so  from 
drought,  there. 

D'Or.  No,  indeed.  But  to  resume  our  criti- 
cism. Do  tell  us,  what  would  Nero  have  said  to 
such  a  performance  as  brother  Bottesini's  ?  Would 
it  not  have  created  an  immense  sensation  at  the 
Palatine  ? 

Pet.  Unquestionably. 

D'Oi\  How  would  the  Emperor  probably  have 
received  the  artist  ? 

Pet.  Ah,  that's  a  harder  question  to  answer. 


232  PETRONius— d'obsay. 

You  know  what  a  capricious  wretch  he  was.  If 
in  a  good  humor  he  would,  no  doubt,  have  over- 
loaded him  with  compliments  and  presents  ;  per- 
haps, have  decreed  him  divine  honors,  and  a  statue 
of  gold  in  some  pet  temple  ;  if,  in  a  peevish, 
jealous  one,  he  would  most  likely  have  interrupted 
the  performer  in  the  midst  of  his  solo,  with  an 
order  to  have  him  thrown  from  the  Tarpeian  Kock, 
and  his  instrument  after  him  ;  or,  perhaps,  have 
had  him  strangled  before  his  eyes,  with  his  own 
bow-string.  Just  such  a  whimsical  villain  was  he. 
You  smile,  Count. 

D'Or.  Oh,  nothing  ;  an  idle  thought.  It 
merely  occurred  to  me,  that  our  modern  public  was 
just  about  as  whimsical  in  its  patronage  of  art, 
though  certainly  not  so  cruel  as  this  imperial  friend 
and  murderer  of  yours.  But  was  Nero  really  a 
man  of  decided  musical  talents  ? 

Pet.  Oh,  yes,  yes  !  Give  Cerberus  his  due. 
Sanguinary  monster  that  he  was,  utterly  neglectful 
as  he  was  of  all  the  true  interests  of  Rome,  he 
yet  developed  a  very  pretty  musical  gift,  and  made 
some  valuable  improvements  in  the  instruments  of 
his  day  ;  more  especially  in  the  way  of  musical 
clocks  and  water- organs.  I  can  remember,  even 
now,  with  great  pleasure,  some  of  the  times  played 


PETRONIUS — d'orsay.  233 

by  them,  both  in  the  Golden  House,  and  in  his 
pahice,  at  Antium. 

UOr.  What  sort  of  voice  had  he  ? 

Pet.  Well,  a  fair  tenor,  of  no  great  compass, 
but  agreeable  quality.  He  accompanied  himself 
very  skilfully,  both  on  harp  and  guitar.  He  wrote, 
moreover,  some  capital  songs.  You  have  heard 
many  of  them,  I  dare  say. 

D'Or.  Not  that  I  am  aware  of 

Ptt.  Indeed  !  You  surprise  me  ;  for,  odious 
as  the  wretch  was,  his  melodies  were  great  favor- 
ites, and  deservedly  so,  all  over  the  empire.  Is  it 
possible  that  there  are  none  of  them  extant  ? 

UOr.  Not  a  note,  not  a  note.  Why,  do  you 
know,  Petronius,  that,  of  all  your  Greek  and 
Roman  music,  hardly  a  baker's  dozen  of  notes  sur- 
vive, and  those  we  are  utterly  at  a  loss  to  translate 
into  any  thing  like  melody  ? 

Pet.  Oh,  you're  joking  ! 

D'Or.  Not  at  all. 

Pet.  What,  do  you  really  mean  to  say  that 
there  is  none  of  Pindar's  music  extant  ? 

D'Or.  I  do. 

Pet.  Nor  the  delicious  songs  of  Sappho  ? 

D'Or.  Alas,  not  a  solitary  strain. 

Pet.  Nor  the  melodies  of  Sonhocles  ? 


234  PETRONIUS — d'orsay, 

D'Or.  Not  one,  not  one  !  No,  nor  of  all  your 
glorious  creations,  or  those  of  Greece,  whether  in 
the  way  of  military,  religious,  or  dramatic  music, 
have  we  a  fragment  worth  speaking  of. 

Pet.  Heavens  and  earth  !  This  is  fame  with  a 
vengeance  !     Are  you  really  in  earnest.  Count  ? 

D'Or.  I  am,  indeed.  'Tis  a  fact,  alike  sad  and 
inexplicable  ;  and  a  theme  of  never-ending  regret 
to  the  scholar  and  the  poet.  What  would  we  not 
give,  indeed,  to  recall  the  strains  that  cheered  on 
the  victors  at  Marathon  ;  or  the  solemn  chants 
that  accompanied  the  Panathenaic  procession  ;  or 
the  bewitching  melodies  that  held  myriads  spell- 
bound in  your  theatres  ;  or  the  glorious  outbursts 
that  made  vocal  the  woods  of  Olympia  and  Delphi  ? 
But  they  have  all  utterly  perished.  As  I  said  just 
now,  the  sole  representatives  of  all  your  antique 
music  are  a  few  paltry  clusters  of  notes,  the  mean- 
ing and  value  of  which  we  are  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
determine.  All  attempts,  hitherto,  to  make  melo- 
dies out  of  them  have  resulted  in  most  lugubrious 
and  repulsive  combinations  of  sounds,  which  every 
ear  of  taste  peremptorily  rejects  as  misinterpre- 
tations. Oh  dear,  how  I  should  love  to  hear  a 
genuine  old  hymn,  or  love-song  of  your  time  ! 
Come,  my  dear  fellow,  do  favor  us  with  a  specimen 


PETRONIUS — d'orsay.  235 

or  two.  A  single  tune  well  turned  by  you  would 
shed  more  light  on  this  subject  than  whole  tons  of 
mystic  German  tomes.  So  strike  up,  if  you  please. 
Let's  have  a  taste  of  Nero's  compositions,  or,  bet- 
ter still,  a  verse  or  two  from  iSappho. 

Pet.  Oh  no,  Count,  not  here  in  the  streets  ; 
that  would  never  do.  I  have  no  objections  to  sing 
for  you  when  we  reach  our  lodgings. 

D'Or.  I  shall  be  exceedingly  obliged. 

Pet.  But  I  must  again  exjjress  my  amazement, 
my  friend,  at  what  you  tell  me.  Is  it  possible  that 
not  a  single  national  air,  or  hynm,  or  choral  ode  of 
any  sort,  Greek  or  Koman,  is  to  be  heard  to-day 
on  earth  ? 

D'Or.  Even  so. 

Pet.  And  of  all  our  innumerable  treatises  on 
the  science,  there  is  not  a  single  survivor  ? 

D'Or.  Nothing  worthy  of  the  name.  Some 
Clitics  even  laugh  at  the  idea  of  calling  music  a 
science  in  your  day. 

Pet.  Ridiculous  ! 

D'  07\  You  had,  then,  a  thorough,  well-digested 
system  of  musical  composition  ? 

Pet.  Why,  certainly. 

D'Or.  And  a  regular  series  of  scales  and 
chords  ? 


236  PETRONius — d'orsay. 

Pet.  We  had. 

D'Or.  And  knew  all  about  thorougli-base  and 
counterpoint  ? 

Pet.  We  did. 

D'07\  And  had  your  fuguists  and  canon- 
wiiters  ? 

Pet.  Of  course  we  had.  Why  multiply  these 
idle  questions,  brother  ?  As  if  our  musicians  had 
not  as  thoroughly  investigated  the  laws  of  sound, 
and  our  science  did  not  rest  on  precisely  the  same 
mathematical  basis  as  your  own  !  You  moderns 
have  certainly  increased  the  number  of  our  instru- 
ments, and  have  made  some  most  desirable  im- 
provements in  the  old  ones,  and  have  thereby 
added  greatly  to  the  executive  force  of  your  orches- 
tras, and  to  the  variety  of  your  musical  effects  ; 
but  for  a  lucid  explanation  of  the  principles  of  the 
art,  and  a  happy  mode  of  illustrating  them,  I  can 
conceive  of  nothing  superior  to  some  of  the  trea- 
tises that  were  popular  in  my  day.  To  be  sure,  I 
was  too  indolent  and  ])leasure-seeking  a  man  to 
study  them  as  they  deserved.  But  how,  in  the 
name  of  Heaven,  they  could  have  all  perished  thus 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  is  incomprehensible. 
Are  you  sure,  Count,  of  the  fact  ?  or,  if  so,  have 
they  been   faithfully  hunted  up  ?     Have  you  ex- 


PETRONIUS — d'orsay.  237 

plored  thoroughly  all  your  old  libraries  ?  Have 
you  searched  diligently  among  the  old  homesteads 
of  the  Muses  ?  Is  it  possible  that  neither  Athens, 
nor  Thebes,  nor  Corinth,  nor  Miletus,  has  ever  re- 
warded the  labors  of  the  antiquarian  with  a  solitary 
discovery  ? 

D'  Or.  Never  ;  not  a  single  stray  melody,  or 
instrument,  or  even  scrap  of  an  instruction-book, 
have  we  ever  found.  I  know  of  but  one  exception  ; 
a  manuscript  discovered  at  Herculaneum. 

Pet.  Ah! 

D'Or.  Yes  ;  but  like  all  the  other  MSS.  there 
excavated,  it  was  scorched  to  tinder  ;  and  after 
being  unrolled  with  infinite  pains  and  patience, 
turned  out  to  be  a  most  obscure  and  unsatisfactory 
production. 

Pet.  Do  you  remember  the  author's  name  ? 

D'Or.  One  Philodemus,  I  think  it  was.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  him  ? 

Pet.  Never. 

UOr.  By  the  way,  Petronius,  a  bright  thought 
strikes  me. 

Pet.  Ah,  what  is  it  ? 

UOr.  Why  can't  you  be  induced  now  to  post- 
pone your  departure  from  the  planet  for  a  few 
days,  and  give  us  a  short  course  of  lectures  on  an- 


238  PETRONius — d'orsay. 

cient  music,  with  appropriate  illustrations  and 
accompaniments  ? 

Pet  What,  I  ? 

D'Or.  Yes  ;  and  at  that  same  beautiful  hall, 
which  we  have  just  left.  You  would  positively  be 
conferring  a  boon  on  the  race.  Apart  from  the 
pleasure  and  information  given,  you  would  inci- 
dentally destroy  a  huge  mass  of  learned  rubbish  on 
the  subject.  What  say  you  ?  You  would  have 
brilliant  and  crowded  houses,  depend  upon  it. 

Pet.  I  doubt  it.  The  mere  curiosity  of  the 
thing  might  perhaps  ensure  one  or  two  fair  au- 
diences ;  after  that,  empty  benches  would  be  the 
order  of  the  evening. 

D'Or.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Pet.  I  do.  I  have  seen  enough  already  of 
these  fidgety,  novelty-loving  Yankees,  to  know 
that  when  I  reached  the  more  difficult  and  thought- 
tasking  part  of  my  subject,  they  would  leave  me 
alone  in  my  glory.  Besides,  my  other  planetary 
arrangements  are  such  as  to  make  the  thing  quite 
out  of  the  question. 

D'Or.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it. 

Pet.  There  is  a  still  better  reason  for  not  listen- 
ing to  your  proposition. 

D'Or.   What  is  that  ? 


PETRONIUS — d'orsay,  239 

Pet.  My  utter  incompetency  to  the  task. 

D'Or.  Oh,  don't  say  that.  On  the  contrary, 
you  would  handle  your  theme  in  such  an  airy, 
playful,  and  engaging  way,  as  to  make  the  very 
iliyest  part  of  it  fascinating. 

Pet.  You  are  very  polite.  Count ;  but  I  assure 
you  it  is  quite  beyond  my  powers. 

D'Or.  Indeed  ?  Why,  I  had  an  impression 
that  you  were  a  decided  musical  genius. 

Pet.  Not  at  all — not  at  all  !  It  is  true  I  had 
a  most  undeserved  reputation  in  that,  and  other 
branches  of  art  ;  and  while  my  little  day  of  court- 
favor  lasted,  a  most  ridiculous  importance  was  at- 
tached to  my  opinions  in  all  matters  of  taste. 

D'Or.  You  were  actually  clothed,  then,  with 
those  powers  of  arbitration,  to  which  Tacitus  al- 
ludes ? 

Pet.  I  was  ;  for  awhile  there  was  no  appeal 
from  my  pronunciamento  upon  the  merits  of  a 
tragedy,  or  the  shape  of  a  helmet,  or  the  feshion 
of  a  goblet,  or  the  qualities  of  a  vintage.  In  short, 
I  laid  down  the  law  on  these  points  in  the  same 
positive,  peremptory  way  as  you  yourself  did,  uiy 
dear  Count,  in  your  time,  on  the  cut  of  a  coat,  the 
iio  of  a  cravat,  or  the  properties  of  an  Arabian  ; 


240  PETRONIUS d'ORSAY. 

though  with  by  no  means  the  same  })retensions  to 
sit  in  the  seat  of  judgment, 

D'Or.  You  flatter  me,  Petronius. 

Pet.  Not  at  all  ;  nor  am  I  insensible,  brother, 
to  your  far  higher  claims  on  my  admiration.  I 
have  heard  of  your  poems,  and  pictures,  and  em- 
phatically, of  your  statuettes  ;  and,  what  is  more, 
my  friend,  I  don't  intend  to  leave  the  planet  until 
you  have  shown  me  some  of  them. 

D'Or.  You  will  not  find  them  worth  detaining 
you.  Speaking  of  Arabians,  by  the  way,  Nero  was 
a  good  judge  of  horse-flesh,  was  he  not  ? 

Pet.  Excellent  ;  he  was,  moreover,  a  charioteer 
of  unquestioned  talent.  There  was  but  one  other 
man,  indeed,  in  all  Italy  that  could  drive  twenty- 
four  in  hand  with  him. 

D'Or.  Twenty-four  in  hand  ?  You  amaze  me. 
I  was  a  clever  whip  on  earth  myself,  but  never  un- 
dertook a  task  like  that.  While  I  have  the  oppor- 
tunity, Petronius,  do  let  me  ask  you,  was  it  Nero 
or  Claudius  that  you  have  showered  such  cutting 
sarcasms  on,  in  your  Satyricon  ?  The  critics  don't 
seem  to  be  agreed  on  this  point. 

Pet.  Claudius,  Claudius,  to  be  sure.  But  is  it 
possible.  Count,  that  that  abominable  work  is  still 
extant  ?     I  am  right  sorry  to  hear  it. 


PETRONIUS D'oRBAY.  241 

D'Or.  Well,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it  on 
some  accounts,  certainly. 

Pet.  I  am,  most  heartily.  Fie  upon  it  ! 
Would  that  it  had  perished  ages  ago  !  So  wags 
the  world  !  To  think  that  time  should  have  de- 
stroyed all  the  most  precious  music  of  antiquity, 
and  yet  have  allowed  such  a  scandalous  production 
to  survive  ! 

D'Or.  Not  altogether  so,  brother.  We  have 
only  some  fragments  of  the  work. 

Pet.  Confound  them  !  Is  there  no  way  of 
blotting  them  out  of  existence  ? 

D'Or.  I  fear  not.  They  are  altogether  too 
witty,  and  too  nasty,  for  the  children  of  men  wil- 
lingly to  lose  sight  of  them.  They  will  stand,  I 
reckon,  while  the  world  stands ;  and  in  many 
tongues. 

Pet.  And  to  my  eternal  discredit.  Well,  well, 
I  deserve  it  all ;  I  deserve  it,  for  thus  vilely  pros- 
tituting my  talents. 

D'Or.  But  don't  be  too  severe  on  yourself, 
brother.  For  one,  I  confess  that,  with  all  its  in- 
decencies, there  are  parts  of  your  book  which  are 
to  me  positively  delicious.  Such  exquisite  fun  ! 
such  inimitable  irony  !  I  speak  more  particularly 
of  the  French  version,  by  the  way,  not  being  so 

n 


242  PETRONius — d'orsat. 

familiar  with  the  original.  Your  portraits,  too, 
are  so  life-like  ;  your  style  so  picturesque  ! 

Pet.  You  are  very  kind,  Count, 

D'Or.  Not  at  all.  Then,  again,  there  are 
sketches  of  the  insolence,  vulgarity,  bestiality  of 
the  nouveaux  riches  of  your  day,  that  are  invalu- 
able to  the  student  of  ancient  life  and  manners. 
Had  your  work  perished,  we  moderns  should  have 
looked  in  vain  for  them  elsewhere. 

Fet.  Indeed  ! 

D'Or.  Even  so. 

Pet.  Infamous  times  those.  Count. 

D'Or.  True  ;  and  you  have  shown  up  their  in- 
famy most  graphically :  ay,  both  in  prose  and 
poetry.  Those  lines  of  yours  on  the  Civil  Wars 
are  glorious  ! 

Pet.  I  am  glad  you  like  them.  I  tried  to  make 
them  good. 

D'Or.  With  signal  success,  too.  There  is 
nothing  in  all  Virgil  finer  than  some  of  the  de- 
scriptive passages,  or  in  Juvenal,  than  the  satirical 
ones. 

Pet.  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  written  nothing 
else. 

D'Or.  Some  of  those  verses  towards  the  com- 
mencement,   where    you    set    forth    the    frightful 


PETRONius — d'orsay.  243 

prodigality  and  debauchery  of  the  metropoUs,  I  re- 
member with  especial  pleasure.  Let  me  see  ;  how 
do  they  read  ?     Ah  yes,  yes  : — 

"  Lo,  more  profusion  :  citron  tables  brought 
From  Africa,  enriched  with  golden  stains ; 
Whole  troops  of  slaves,  bright  purple  tapestry, 
Making  their  owners  beggars.     Kound  the  board 
So  mischievously  precious,  drowned  in  wine, 
Lie  the  imbruted  revellers  ;  his  arms 
The  soldier  leaves  to  rust,  and  banqueting 
Consumes  the  wealth  wrung  from  a  plundered  world." 

These  last  lines,  particularly,  recall  to  me  that 
brilliant  picture  I  showed  you  on  our  way  hither. 

Pet.  What,  the  Decadence  ? 

D'Or.   The  same. 

Pet.  A  magnificent  composition.  It  is  a  com- 
pliment, indeed,  to  be  named  in  the  same  breath 
with  it.  And  yet,  my  dear  Count,  notwithstand- 
ing the-  kindness  of  your  criticisms,  I  must  again 
express  my  bitter  regret  at  having  ever  given  the 
Satyricon  to  the  world,  and  would  most  gladly  an- 
nihilate it,  if  I  could,  this  very  hour.  Do  change 
the  subject,  if  you  love  me. 

D'Or.  With  all  my  heart.  But  look  out, 
brother,  look  out  for  that  infernal  omnibus.     Con- 


244  TETRONIUS — d'ORSAY. 

found  these  Jehus  !     The  idea  of  whirling  round 
the  corner  of  a  crowded  street  in  that  fashion  ! 

Pet.  These  varlets  care  neither  for  man  nor 
ghost,  evidently.  But  is  there  no  punishment  for 
such  outrages  ?  Where  are  the  guardians  of  the 
public  peace  ? 

UOr.  Where,  indeed  ! 

Pet.  How  the  ruffians  howled,  too,  and  blas- 
phemed round  the  doors  of  the  hall  ! 

D'Or.  Most  disgracefully. 

Pet.  Such  volleys  of  tobacco-juice,  likewise  !  I 
have  got  the  marks  of  them  here  now,  both  on 
cloak  and  tunic. 

UOr.  The  beasts! 

Pet.  That's  not  the  worst  of  it.  Do  you  know, 
brother,  that  several  smart  showers  of  this  same 
perfumed  liquid  were  falling  in  my  neighborhood 
throughout  the  performance  ;  yes,  even  during  the 
very  choicest  passages  of  the  music  ? 

D'Or.  I  noticed  them,  and  was  disgusted  be- 
yond measure.  In  such  a  hall,  too,  and  before 
ladies  !  To  think  that  such  an  abominable  prac- 
tice should  disgrace  a  whole  nation  thus  ! 

Pet.  It  is  not  a  local  peculiarity,  then  ? 

D'Or.  No,  indeed  !  The  whole  face  of  this 
fair  land   is  stained  by  these  pollutions.      From 


PETRONIUS — d'orsay,  245 

seaboard  to  seaboard,  from  Maine  to  California  (so 
they  tell  me),  it  is  one  incessant  shower,  from 
morning  till  night.  Not  content  with  irrigating 
thus  their  fields  and  gardens,  they  fire  away, 
without  remorse,  in  every  temple,  theatre,  and 
tribunal  of  the  Union.  The  very  statues  of  their 
Conscript  Fathers  are  not  safe  from  their  assaults. 

Pet.  Horrors  ! 

D'Or.  On  the  frontiers,  in  the  absence  of  the 
opera,  and  other  more  legitimate  excitements,  we 
might  excuse  such  things  ;  but  here,  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  metropolis,  and  the  very  shrine  of  the 
Muses  themselves,  to  be  guilty  of  such  indecen- 
cies ! 

Pet.  It  is,  indeed,  atrocious.  But  here  we  are, 
brother,  at  the  Astor.  What  say  you  to  a  bit  of 
supper  ? 

D'Or.  Agreed.  To-morrow,  you  know,  bright 
and  early,  we  are  to  carry  out  the  great  object  of 
our  journey  hither. 

Pet.  We  shall  be  at  the  Falls  before  sunrise,  I 
hope. 

D'Or.  Oh,  easily.  And  then,  brother,  look  out 
for  wonders.  Ay,  and  we  shall  hear  music,  too,  of 
the  Lord's  own  composing  ;  an  orchestra,  to  which 


246  PETRONius — d'orsay, 

even  Brother  Jullien's  might  be  proud  to  play 
second  fiddle. 

Pet.  I  should  have  preferred  a  visit  there  in 
summer,  though,  I  must  say. 

D'Or.  I  don't  know  about  that.  Some  of  my 
artistical  brethren  tell  me  that  the  winter  views 
are  altogether  the  finest.  But,  by  Jove,  it's  past 
eleven  ;  let's  in  to  supper.  After  which,  Petro- 
nius,  I  shall  not  fail  to  claim  the  fulfilment  of  your 
promise,  touching  those  antique  songs. 

Pet.  Eight  willingly.  Count  ;  and  you,  in  turn, 
must  favor  me  with  an  air  or  two  from  the  Norma. 

D'Or.  Certainly.  The  Semiramide  is  my  fa- 
vorite, however. 

Pet.  As  you  please. 

D'Or.  Bien,  aliens  done.  \Exeunt. 


GERMANICUS— RIENZI. 

[SCENE— COLOSSEUM.] 

Ger.  Come,  brother,  let  us  leave  this  spot.  I 
am  heart-sick  at  beholding  all  this  desolation,  and 
long  to  fly  back  to  my  own  happy  star,  and  peace- 
ful labors. 

Bien.  Yet  a  few  moments  more,  Germanicus  ; 
at  least,  till  this  beautiful  sunset  hath  faded  from 
the  sky.  Charming,  charming  !  Do  you  know, 
brother,  that  this  ruin  seems  far  more  vast  and 
majestic  to  me  than  it  did  when  I  last  mused 
here  ?  These  excavations  and  repairs  have  restored 
much  of  its  original  grandeur.  How  sweetly  the 
light  plays  through  these  corridors,  and  gilds  the 
shrubs  that  fringe  these  crumbling  arches  ! 

Ger.  An  impressive  scene,  brother,  but  a  most 
sad  one.  I  confess,  I  linger  here  right  unwillingly. 
Our  whole  visit,  indeed,  has  been  to  me  most  pain- 
ful ;  nor  would  even  your  all-persuading  eloquence, 


248  GERMANICUS — RIENZI. 

my  dear  friend,  prevail  upon  me  soon  to  repeat  it. 
Little,  little  have  I  seen  in  living,  or  in  dead 
Rome,  that  I  can  recall  with  pleasure,  either  as  a 
citizen,  or  as  an  immortal. 

Rie7i.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so. 

Ger.  And  yet  I  must  speak  my  honest  feel- 
ings. This  very  pile  is  to  me  so  haunted  with 
images  of  horror  that  I  quite  lose  all  thought  of  its 
magnificence  ;  nay,  even  feel  a  sense  of  guilt  in  loi- 
tering here. 

Mien.  A  dreary  history,  truly  ! 

Ger.  A  building  set  apart  to  wicked  uses ; 
conceived  in  cruelty  ;  reared  by  wretched  captives, 
amid  the  jeers  of  the  rabble,  and  the  blows  of 
savage  task-masters  ;  inaugurated  by  the  wanton 
massacre  of  thousands  of  men  and  beasts  ;  its  daily 
experience  one  of  bloodshed  and  ruflSanism  ! 

Rien.  Too  true,  alas  ! 

Ger.  When  I  think  of  these  things,  of  the  in- 
numerable atrocities  that  have  been  perpetrated 
within  these  walls  ;  of  the  angry  passions  that  have 
here  been  stimulated  unto  madness  ;  the  fiendish 
shouts  that  have  rung  through  these  corridors  ;  the 
streams  of  innocent  blood  that  have  flowed  here, — 
ought  I  not  to  be  filled  with  dread  and  anguish  ? 
Nay,  I  wonder  that  one  stone  hath  been  left  stand- 


GERMANICUS— RIENZI.  249 

ing  on  another  ;  that  holy  angels  have  not  been 
sent,  long  ago,  to  sweep  away  this  monument  of 
iniquity  from  the  earth.  I  am  indignant  that 
poets  should  sing  the  praises  of  such  a  ruin,  and 
that  artists,  as  we  have  seen  them  to-day,  should 
set  it  forth  on  canvas,  should  make  copies  of  it, 
forsooth,  in  precious  marbles  and  mosaics,  and 
that  lovely  women  should  wear  upon  their  bosoms 
such  a  memento  of  human  guilt  and  suffering.  I 
feel  as  if  Nature  herself  ought  to  recoil  in  horror 
from  a  spot  so  accursed,  instead  of  illuminating  it 
thus  with  her  precious  sunlight,  clothing  it  with 
these  graceful  draperies,  adorning  it  with  these 
sweet  flowers.  Wicked  and  loathsome  things  alone 
should  haunt  it,  baneful  weeds  alone  should  spring 
from  its  decay. 

Bien.  You  speak  feelingly,  brother. 

Ger.   And  its  present  histoiy,  what  is  there  in 

it  that  mortal  or  immortal  can  look  upon  with 

pleasure  ?  Nay,  to  what  vile  uses  does  it  minister  ! 

Of  what  pitiful  and  degrading  mummeries  is  it  the  ■ 

scene  !     Look  at  that  cross  in  yonder  arena,  and 

the  wretches  that  are  grovelling  at  its  feet.     Kead 

the  inscription  that  defaces  it :    "  For  every  kiss 

here  imprinted,  ttoo  hundred  days  of  purgatorial 

pains  are  abated."     What  folly  and  madness  1 
11* 


250  GERMANICUS RIENZI, 

What  an  appeal  to  all  that  is  selfish  and  abject  in 
Immauity  !  The  idea  that  our  Father  in  heaven 
will  accepi  the  kissing  of  that  dead  wood  as  a 
substitute  for  duty  done,  temptation  overcome  1 
Monstrous  blasphemy  ! 

Rien.  A  most  shameful  perversion,  certainly, 
of  Christ's  blessed  teachings  1  But,  Germanicus, 
I  have  been  a  little  surprised,  I  confess,  at  the 
warmth  of  your  language.  You,  who  were  bom 
and  bred  here,  habituated  from  boyhood  to  the 
sanguinary  spectacles  of  the  amphitheatre  ;  a  Ke- 
man  general,  too,  who  won  so  many  bloody  victo- 
ries,— who  brought  home  so  many  captive  princes  ; 
you,  the  idol  of  your  soldiers,  whose  shouts  of  en- 
thusiasm I  can  even  now  hear,  in  fancy,  along  the 
slopes  of  yonder  Capitol — 

Ger.  Ay,  and  to  whom  fire  and  sword  were 
things  familiar  as  his  sandal  ;  pardon  my  inter- 
rupting you,  brother,  but  is  it  possible,  you  would 
ask,  that  this  Germanicus  hath  so  completely  for- 
gotten all  the  sentiments  and  prejudices  of  his 
earthly  career,  that  he  should  talk  thus,  should  be 
thus  sensitive  about  the  shedding  of  a  little  human 
blood,  forsooth  ?  But  why  this  surprise,  brother  ? 
Need  I  tell  you  that  this  glorious  change  has  been 
wrought  within  me,  and  that  the  follies  and  errors  of 


GERMANICUS EIENZI.  251 

earth  have  long  since  faded  away  before  the  teachings 
of  the  life  immortal  ?  Need  I  tell  you  how  worth- 
less my  earthly  laurels  now  seem  to  me,  how  wicked 
my  conquests,  or  what  tears  of  anguish  I  have  shed, 
for  every  drop  of  brother's  blood  that  I  e'er  caused 
to  flow  ?  Need  I  paint  to  you  the  joy  I  now  feel  in 
being  the  resident  of  a  blessed  star,  where  peace  rules, 
where  no  voice  or  hand  is  ever  raised  in  anger,  no 
image  of  war  defaces  the  beautiful  landscape  ? 
But  even  on  earth,  brother,  I  was  no  wanton  lover 
of  cruelty.  These  bloody  sports  of  the  amphitheatre 
were  most  loathsome  and  repulsive  to  me  (I  speak 
not  of  this  place,  of  course,  which  was  not  in  exist- 
ence in  my  day,  though  we  had  an  amphitheatre, 
almost  as  vast  and  costly,  in  the  Campus)  ;  nor 
was  I  present  at  them  but  once  in  my  short  life, 
and  then  a  most  unwilling  spectator.  No,  Kienzi ; 
like  yourself,  I  was,  at  heart,  far  more  of  the 
scholar  than  the  soldier  ;  but  too  happy,  when  I 
could  snatch  a  brief  hour  from  the  tumults  of  the 
camp,  for  my  loved  poets.  Could  I  have  had  my 
way,  I  would  have  spent  all  my  days  a  student  at 
Athens,  or,  at  least,  have  found  some  quiet  nook 
among  the  Alban  hills  for  myself  and  dear  Agrip- 
pina,  where  I  might  have  mused  over  the  pages  of 
TuUy,  or  read  the  heavens  with  Aratus.     'Twas 


252  GERMANICUS — RIENZI. 

not  so  written  in  the  book  of  Providence,  and,  as  I 
now  know,  most  wisely.  Even  as  it  was,  brother, 
though,  I  found  time  for  some  few  literary  labors, 
as  you  are  aware. 

Hien.  Oh,  yes.  I  have  read  your  translations, 
my  friend,  with  great  interest,  and  should  have 
dearly  loved  to  have  seen  your  comedies. 

Ger.  Trifles,  trifles  !  You  must  pardon  this 
egotism,  Rienzi ;  I  should  not  have  said  so  much, 
but  for  my  wish  to  vindicate  myself  from  the  im- 
putation of  bloodthirstiness. 

Bien.  On  the  contrary,  brother,  it  is  I  who 
should  apologize  for  a  remark  so  uncalled  for,  so 
thoughtless  ;  as  if  it  were  possible  for  a  cruel  or 
ungentle  thought  to  have  found  shelter  in  the 
bosom  of  Germanicus  !  Ah  no,  no  !  your  charac- 
ter is  quite  too  well  established  in  the  eyes  of  men 
and  angels  for  such  an  accusation  to  find  favor. 
Your  portrait,  as  painted  by  the  great  master  of 
history,  hath  no  such  unlovely  feature  in  it.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  all  graciousness  and  sweetness. 
I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  hero  of  earth  more  be- 
loved and  lamented,  this  very  hour,  by  the  children 
of  men.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  enthusiasm  with 
which,  a  mere  boy,  I  read  the  story  of  your  career  ; 
the  tears  I  shed  over  that  beautiful  dying  speech 


GERMANICUS — KIENZI.  253 

of  yours  ;  the  thrill  I  felt  at  those  songs  and  shouts 
of  joy,  that  rang  through  all  Rome's  streets,  at  the 
mere  rumor  of  your  recovery  :  "  Salva  Homa,  salva 
patria,  Salvus  est  Germanicus  ;  "  and  in  after 
life,  when  I  used  to  meditate  among  these  ruins, 
and  plan  glorious  enterprises  for  my  regenerated 
country,  need  I  say  how  conspicuous  your  image 
ever  was  in  my  visions  ?  Ah,  had  you  lived  out 
your  days,  brother,  who  knows  what  gloiy  would 
have  encircled  your  name  ;  what  happiness  might 
have  been  in  store  for  this  devoted  city  ! 

Ger.  My  dear  friend,  I  am  touched  to  the 
heart  to  hear  you  talk  thus.  But  let  us  resume 
our  former  subject.  Candidly  now,  Rienzi,  have 
you  not  felt  quite  as  much  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment as  I  have  in  this  visit  to  our  old  home  ?  You 
have  certainly  looked  sad  more  than  once  to-day. 
Speak  out,  brother,  and  freely. 

Jlien.  I  will.  Let  me  see  ;  yes,  it  is  just  five 
centuries  ago,  this  very  hour,  since  I  was  here. 
How  well  I  remember  the  evening  !  My  last, 
brother,  on  earth  !  The  very  next  day  was  I  in- 
humanly, treacherously  murdered  by  that  mob  that 
I  had  vainly  endeavored  to  exalt  into  a  nation.  I 
had  been  unusually  well  and  cheerful  that  morn- 
ing, I  remember,  and  had  received  the  ambassa- 


264  GERMANICUS — KIENZI. 

dors  from  the  neighboring  cities  with  a  lighter 
heart  and  freer  speech  than  I  had  known  for  years. 
They  had  come  expressly  to  congratulate  me  on 
the  defeat  of  the  barons,  and  the  deliverance  of 
Rome  from  the  great  freebooter  of  Provence.  At 
the  banquet,  too,  which  followed  the  audience,  1 
was  positively  joyous.  Oh,  how  charmingly  my 
sweet  Nina  did  the  honors  on  that  day  !  Never 
before  had  she  seemed  so  beautiful,  so  bewitching 
to  me  !  I  dined  but  sparingly,  however,  and  soon 
came  forth  to  wander  here,  and  to  relieve  my  mind 
from  the  crowd  of  thoughts  that  were  fast  pressing 
upon  me.  'Twas  just  such  another  evening  as 
this,  brother ;  the  same  lovely  light  in  the  west, 
— the  same  tranquil,  desolate  picture  around  us, — 
the  same  plaintive  music  that  we  now  hear  from 
yonder  belfry.  Long  did  I  pace  these  corridors, 
lost  in  conflicting  meditations.  Notwithstanding 
all  the  difficulties  of  my  position,  the  jealousy  of 
the  cardinals,  the  bitter  hatred  of  the  nobility,  and 
the  rebellious  disposition  of  the  people,  murmuring 
at  a  most  just  and  necessary  tax,  I  still  saw  much 
to  encourage  and  cheer  me  ;  still  confided  in  the 
glorious  cause  to  which  I  was  pledged,  in  my  own 
conscious  integrity,  and  persuasive  eloquence  ;  still 
looked  forward  to  the  consummation  of  those  re- 


GERMANICUS — RIENZl.  255 

forms,  over  whicli  I  had  so  long  been  brooding  ; 
the  organization  of  a  citizen  soldiery  ;  the  con- 
struction of  a  new  parliament,  based  on  a  more 
equitable  system  of  representation  ;  the  inflexible 
administration  of  justice  ;  the  diffusion  of  equal 
and  wholesome  laws  ;  and,  above  all,  of  the  bless- 
ings of  education.  I  need  not  repeat  to  you, 
brother,  the  innumerable  projects,  reasonable  and 
chimerical,  that  occupied  my  thoughts.  You  will 
smile,  when  I  tell  you,  that  among  them  w^as  the 
demolition  of  this  very  pile  itself,  and  the  erection 
on  its  ruins  of  a  Free  Academy,  to  which  all  the 
youth  of  Kome  and  of  Italy  might  resort,  and 
drink  of  the  pure  fountains  of  learning,  without 
money  and  without  price.  Yes,  Germanicus,  I 
will  own  it,  I  still  cherished  the  bright  vision  of  a 
happy  family  of  republics,  and  Eome  their  glorious 
centre  ;  still  looked  forward  to  a  long  term  of 
faithful  service  to  the  State,  and  a  peaceful  depar- 
ture at  last,  amid  the  tears  and  plaudits  of  my 
countrymen.  Little  dreamt  I  that  conspiracy  was 
that  very  moment  aiming  at  my  life,  and  the  arch- 
conspirator  my  own  most  trusted  friend  ;  httle 
dreamt  I  that,  ere  another  sun  should  set,  I  should 
be  reviled  and  trampled  on  by  the  very  men  I 


256  GERMANICUS — RIENZt. 

would  have  died  to  serve  ;  and  the  first  dagger  to 
reach  my  heart,  that  of  the  vile  ingrate,  who — 

Ge7\  One  moment,  brother  ;  let  these  mortals 
pass. 

Rien.  Yes,  let  us  step  beneath  this  archway. 

Ger.  What  a  lovely  young  creature  !  Such  an 
ingenuous  countenance,  too  1  That  was  evidently 
her  lover  that  was  with  her.  Did  you  notice  the 
beautiful  cluster  of  wild  flowers  that  she  had  ? 

Rien.  I  did  ;  gathered,  doubtless,  from  these 
very  ruins. 

Oer.  And  what  was  it  she  said  with  that  sweet 
voice  of  hers  ?  "  And  as  soon  as  we  return  to 
New  York,  Charles,  I  shall  press  these  violets  be- 
ttveen  the  pages  of  that  beautiful  Shakspeare  you 
gave  me." 

Rien.  You  have  reported  her  rightly,  brother, 
I  believe. 

Ger,  Think  of  that,  Kienzi ;  young  lovers  from 
a  land  whose  very  existence  was  undreamed  of, 
even  in  your  day,  gathering  violets  from  the  very 
spot  where  sat  the  imperial  Titus  in  all  his  glory  ! 
What  a  text  for  the  preacher  is  here  !  Ah,  there 
they  go,  beneath  yon  northern  portal.  Happy 
things,  what  to  them  is  this  dead  town,  and  all  its 


GERMANICUS — RIENZI.  257 

memories  !      But    now,    my  dear   friend,    resume 
your  discourse,  I  beg  of  you. 

Bien.  Well,  I  was  merely  about  to  answer 
your  question,  brother.  On  returning,  then,  to  my 
loved  Kome,  after  so  long  an  interval,  do  I  find 
thi&  bright  vision  of  mine  any  nearer  fulfilment  ? 
Do  I  find  much  to  cheer  me  as  patriot  and  philan- 
thropist, or,  like  yourself,  do  I  behold  far  more  to 
grieve  and  vex  my  spirit  ?  I  must  honestly  say, 
the  latter.  Not  that  I  would  be  blind  to  the  im- 
provements here.  Nay,  this  very  spot  hath  lost 
something  of  its  dreariness.  As  I  said  before, 
these  excavations  and  restorations  have  revived 
somewhat  of  its  original  grandeur.  Yon  villa,  too, 
that  crowns  the  Palatine,  the  gardens  and  churches 
that  dot  the  other  hills  around  us,  soften  somewhat 
the  sense  of  desolation.  Above  all,  that  magnifi- 
cent dome,  outlined  on  yonder  glowing  sky,  and 
the  treasures  of  art  that  are  sheltered  beneath  it, 
these  are  things,  brother,  not  to  be  passed  by  in 
ungrateful  silence.  Yes,  Germanicus,  there  have 
been  mighty  deeds  done  here  in  Art  and  Letters, 
since  my  little  day  on  earth  ;  the  glorious  cause  of 
learning,  to  which  my  beloved  Petrarch  gave  such 
an  impulse,  has  been  crowned  with  precious  tri- 
umphs ;  triumphs  that  we  have  this  day  witnessed 


258  GERMANICUS KIENZI. 

in  stately  libraries,  and  in  the  master-pieces  that 
adorn  all  the  palaces  and  churches  of  the  metropo- 
lis. But,  alas  !  the  genius  that  animated  these 
mighty  masters  seems  to  have  quite  abandoned 
their  descendants  ;  and  of  the  great  works  of  the 
present  generation  that  we  have  admired,  are  not 
nearly  all  the  productions  of  strangers  among  us  ? 

Ge7\  Too  true,  brother. 

Bien.  There  are  other  improvements,  too,  not 
to  be  gainsayed.  I  find  better  built  and  quieter 
streets  ;  roads  comparatively  purged  of  brigands  ; 
the  comforts  of  life  somewhat  more  diffused  ;  some 
useful  and  beautiful  inventions,  the  benefits  of 
which  are  within  the  reach  of  all.  Nor  have  my 
ears  been  assailed  by  those  cries  of  midnight  vio- 
lence, those  terrible  street-feuds,  that  disgraced 
Eome  in  my  time.  The  hand  of  charity,  too,  has 
not  been  idle  ;  though,  alas,  the  subjects  of  her 
ministrations  are  as  numerous  as  ever  !  Oh,  how 
pained  I  have  been,  brother,  to  behold  such  multi- 
tudes of  beggars  as  have  annoyed  us  at  every  turn 
and  corner  ;  the  halt,  the  maimed,  the  blind,  the 
leprous,  haunting  every  ruin,  disfiguring  every 
palace  !  Nay,  one  can  hardly  say  one's  prayers  in 
church  for  the  importunities  of  these  creatures. 

Ge7'.     A    piteous    spectacle.       Do   you    know, 


GERMANICUS — RIENZI.  259 

Rienzi,  that  I  have  seen  far  more  of  these  poor 
wretches  to-day  than  in  all  my  earthly  experience 
before  ? 

Bien.  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  At  the  same  time, 
it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  charitable  insti- 
tutions here  are  far  more  grand  and  costly,  the 
modes  of  treatment  far  more  wise  and  beneficial, 
than  we  could  boast  of  But,  admitting  all  these 
things,  how  much  substantial  cause  for  soitow  re- 
mains !  Yes,  in  all  the  essentials  of  true  national 
greatness,  has  not  poor  Rome  as  much  to  seek  to- 
day, as  when  I  vainly  sought  to  do  her  service  ? 
Look  at  her  government — bankrupt  alike  in  means 
and  character  ;  dependent  for  the  very  breath  it 
draws  on  the  will  of  a  foreign  banker,  and  the  bay- 
onets of  foreign  soldiers  ;  at  her  priesthood,  power- 
less for  aU  good  ends,  yet  as  arrogant  and  intoler- 
ant at  heart  as  if  they  still  dictated  terms  to  the 
sovereigns  of  earth  ;  holding  fast  to  every  old 
abuse  and  mummery, — setting  their  faces  against 
all  true  progress  ;  their  high  priest,  what  a  sor- 
rowful figure  does  he  present  !  Meanly  recoiling 
from  his  own  better  nature,  disavowing  his  own 
reforms,  and  preferring  the  protection  of  strangers 
to  the  love  of  his  countrymen  ;  and  now  (unless 
rumor  sadly  belies  him)  quenching  in  the  wine-cup 


260  GERMANICUS — RIENZI. 

every  latent  aspiration  of  his  heart  ;  fast  sinking 
into  the  imbecile's  grave,  and  to  be  remembered 
only  as  one  of  the  least  worthy  of  his  line.  And 
the  people  ;  the  poor,  priest-ridden,  tax-devoured 
people,  what  voice  have  they  in  the  public  coun- 
sels ?  Where  are  the  laws  that  should  set  forth 
their  rights,  the  champions  that  should  maintain 
them  ?  Nay,  have  you  not  seen  yourself,  Ger- 
manicus,  that  it  is  treason  to  speak  aloud  my  name 
in  the  streets  of  Eome  ?  Every  expression  of  a 
sentiment  for  freedom,  every  suggestion  of  a  mea- 
sure for  the  relief  of  the  masses,  may  it  not,  at  any 
moment,  consign  the  unfortunate  man  who  utters 
it  to  the  dungeons  of  St.  Angelo  ?  So  absolute  is 
the  reign  of  terror  here,  so  universal  the  practice 
of  espionage  !  What  remains,  then,  but  a  servile 
acquiescence  in  a  system  which  every  man  at 
heart  hates  and  despises  ;  a  system  which,  with  all 
its  show  of  sanctity,  its  long  robes  and  faces  that 
it  wears  for  state  occasions,  every  one  feels  to  be 
false,  and  rotten  to  the  core.  Need  I  dwell  on 
these  points,  brother  ?  Do  not  the  crumbling 
towns,  the  neglected  fields,  the  deserted  sea-ports, 
the  sad  countenances  that  we  see  every  where, 
the  crowds  of  beggars  that  swarm  in  every  piazza, 
line  eveiy  highway,  tell  the  mournful  tale,  far  bet- 


GERMANICUS — RIENZI.  261 

ter  than  I  can  ?  Worst,  saddest  of  all,  the  very 
peace  of  the  State  (if  we  may  call  such  death-like 
torpor  peace)  secured  by  foreign  soldiers. 

Ger.  Ay,  brother,  nothing  that  I  have  wit- 
nessed has  so  galled  me  as  this  ;  so  revived  earthly 
passions  and  prejudices  within  me  ;  to  see  the  walls 
of  Rome,  the  omnipotent  Rome,  guarded  by  the 
troops  of  those  very  barbarians  whom  I  thought 
scarce  worthy  of  my  sword  ;  to  be  sent  to  conquer 
whom,  seemed  little  better  than  honorable  banish- 
ment. 

Bien.  Even  so  ;  Rome  is  protected  from  extinc- 
tion, this  very  hour,  only  by  the  jealousy  of  rival 
powers. 

Ger.  And  the  countrymen  of  Brutus  and  of 
Rienzi  tamely  submit  to  these  things  ! 

Bien.  True,  true  ;  our  very  names,  as  I  said 
before,  may  not  be  spoken  aloud  in  these  streets, 

Ger.  But  have  there  been  no  efforts  made  for 
freedom  since  your  day,  brother  ? 

Bien.  Only  one,  Germanicus,  that  history  will 
ever  speak  of ;  and  that  a  recent  one.  But,  alas  ! 
the  triumph  was  even  more  short-lived,  the  disas- 
ter and  defeat  more  speedy  and  terrible,  than  were 
my  own.  True,  it  hath  not  fared  so  hardly  with 
the  leader.     He  has  not  been  murdered  by  his  un- 


262  GERMANICUS — RIENZI. 

grateful  followers,  nor,  thank  heaven,  hath  he 
fallen  into  the  clutches  of  the  oppressor.  He  still 
lives,  full  of  faith  and  heart,  and  inspired,  they  tell 
me,  by  visions,  bright  as  ever  gilded  my  path  ;  but 
of  his  companions,  many  are,  even  now,  languish- 
ing in  the  dungeons  of  yonder  fortress,  and  will,  I 
fear,  never  again  behold  the  light  of  day.  Others, 
in  their  despair,  have  turned  their  backs  on  Rome 
for  ever,  and  are  enjoying  in  far-off  lands  the  rights 
no  longer  recognized  here. 

Ger.  And  must  it  ever  be  thus  ?  See  you  no 
specks  of  hope,  brother,  in  the  horizon  ?  No  indi- 
cations of  a  restoration  of  our  national  character 
and  prosperity  ?  Are  there,  indeed,  no  more  golden 
days  in  store  for  Rome  ?  Are  these  hills  around 
us  ever  to  remain  thus  silent  and  neglected  ?  Not 
that  I  would  revive,  brother,  those  horrible  crea- 
tions, whose  wrecks  we  are  now  gazing  on.  Heaven 
forbid  !  Ah  no  !  no  more  Golden  Houses,  polluted 
by  the  orgies  of  fiends  ;  no  more  colossal  Piles, 
dedicated,  like  this,  to  bloodshed  ;  or  Arches,  that 
tell  of  cruel  and  exterminating  wars  ;  or  Baths, 
where  men  may  dream  away  their  lives  in  sloth 
and  luxury  :  but  are  there  to  be  no  stately  man- 
sions again  reared  upon  them,  the  abodes  of  vir- 
tuous freemen  ;    no  piles  dedicated   to  Art,   and 


GERMANICUS RIENZI.  263 

Science,  and  Charity,  and  to  a  pure  and  simple 
Faith,  purged  of  all  monstrous  legends,  and  gaudy 
pageantries  ?  Is  this  forum  at  our  feet  never  again 
to  be  frequented  by  free  and  loyal  citizens  ?  Is 
the  voice  of  a  Cato  or  a  TuUy  never  more  to  be 
raised  here  in  behalf  of  truth  and  justice  ?  These 
fields,  are  they  always  to  remain  thus  desolate,  or 
will  they  not  smile  again  beneath  an  intelligent 
culture  ?  Yon  campagna,  will  it  not  again  be 
crossed  by  stately  roads,  dotted  with  villas,  and 
orchards,  and  gardens  ?  And  those  old  hills  that 
enclose  it,  so  dear  to  tradition,  will  not  their  pure 
air  again  be  breathed  by  the  free  ?  Will  not  the 
shouts  of  happy  boyhood  be  once  more  heard 
among  them  ?  Will  not  their  pleasant  groves 
and  murmuring  rills  once  more,  as  of  old,  invite 
and  soothe  the  meditations  of  genius  and  of  pa- 
triotism ?  How  say  you,  brother  ?  Or  is  this 
sad  scene  to  remain  thus  ever,  grieving  the  heart 
of  the  citizen,  sounding  its  solemn  warning  to  the 
stranger,  through  all  time  ? 

Bien.  Who  shall  say,  Germanicus  ?  Who 
shall  presume  to  read  God's  book  of  providence  ? 
It  may  be,  that  the  fair  picture  you  have  painted, 
is  yet  to  be  realized  here.  It  may  be,  that  a  city 
ig  yet  to  rise  from  these  ruins,  more  lovely  and 


264  GERMANICUS RIENZI. 

stately  than  earth  has  ever  borne,  and  crowned 
with  all  those  blessings,  which  mortals  now  under- 
stand by  the  word  Liberty  ;  free  speech,  an  unfet- 
tered press,  a  fair  distribution  of  rights  and  duties, 
a  various,  well-requited  industry,  an  universally 
diffused  education,  with  all  the  inventions,  com- 
forts, benefits,  that  follow  in  their  train.  It  may 
be,  that  they  are  to  remain  thus,  reading,  as  you 
say,  their  sad  lesson  to  humanity,  till  not  one  stone 
survives,  not  one  trace  of  human  hands  can  be 
identified  here.  One  thing,  brother,  is  certain. 
There  can  be  no  rapid  redemption  of  Rome  from 
this  rule  of  tyranny  and  ignorance,  no  sudden 
transformation  of  this  populace  into  a  people. 
There  was  my  great  error,  Germanicus,  when  in 
the  body  ;  the  enthusiast's  dream,  for  which  I  laid 
down  my  life  ;  the  idea,  that  in  a  few  short  months, 
or  years,  I  could  turn  a  mob  into  a  nation  ;  could 
reap  those  precious  fruits  of- freedom,  which  it  costs 
centuries  of  toil  and  tribulation  to  ripen.  Had  I 
been  fifty  fold  wiser  and  better  tha^n  I  was,  still 
this  fancied  mission  of  mine  could  not  have  been, 
cannot  yet  be  fulfilled.  This  is  the  true  moral  of 
my  career,  brother,  admirably  set  forth  as  it  is,  in 
that  charming  book  I  was  showing  you  yesterday, 
Ger.  What,  by  the  great  novelist  of  Britain  ? 


GERMANICUS — RIENZI.  265 

Eien.  The  same  ;  a  most  brilliant^  but  quite 
too  flattering  picture  of  my  character  and  talents. 

Ger.  I  was  much  struck  with  it  ;  nor  shall  I 
readily  forget,  brother,  the  air  of  fright  and  mystery, 
with  which  the  poor  little  bookseller  handed  you 
the  volume,  or  the  solemn  promise  of  secresy  as  to 
the  transaction,  which  he  exacted  from  the  ghostly 
borrower.  But  do  you  remember  the  passage  you 
refer  to  ? 

Rien.  I  think  I  can  recall  a  part  of  it  ;  'tis  the 
very  last  in  the  book.  "  The  moral  of  the  tribune's 
life,  and  of  this  fiction,  is  not  the  stale  and  unpro- 
fitable moral  that  warns  the  ambition  of  an  indi- 
vidual ;  more  vast,  more  solemn,  and  more  useful, 
it  addresses  itself  to  nations.  It  proclaims,  that 
to  be  great  and  free,  a  people  must  not  trust  to  in- 
dividuals, but  themselves  ;  that  there  is  no  sudden 
leap  from  servitude  to  liberty  ;  that  it  is  to  insti- 
tutions, not  to  men,  that  they  must  look  for  re- 
forms that  last  beyond  the  hour  ;  that  their  own 
passions  are  the  real  despots  they  should  subdue, 
their  own  reason  the  true  regenerator  of  abuses. 
With  a  calm  and  noble  people,  the  individual  am- 
bition of  a  citizen  can  never  effect  evil ;  to  be  im- 
patient of  chains  is  not  to  be  worthy  of  freedom  ; 

to  massacre  a  magistrate  is  not  to  amehorate  the 
12 


266  GERMANICUS — RIENZI. 

laws."     There  is  still  another  sentence,  I  beheve, 
but  it  has  escaped  me. 

Ger.  Truly,  nobly  stated.  Oh,  when  will  the 
nations  of  the  earth  learn  and  apj^ly  these  lessons  ? 
But  come,  brother,  the  mists  are  rising  round  us, 
and  the  light  is  fast  fading  from  the  sky.  Dark- 
ness will  soon  o'ertake  us.  Come,  let  us  leave  this 
desolate  scene,  these  merciless  walls,  to  spirits  more 
congenial  to  them  ;  to  those  who,  living,  presided 
over,  exulted  in  their  horrors.  Here,  indeed, 
might  fitly  muse  and  wander  the  blood-stained 
Domitian,  the  brutal  Commodus,  the  aye-frowning 
Caracalla  ;  but  'tis  no  place  for  gentle  souls  like 
ours.  Away,  away  !  Even  as  I  speak,  my  own 
dear  star  springs  into  sight,  and  seems  to  bid  me 
welcome.  Come,  brother,  you  know  your  promise. 
You  were  to  spend  some  happy  days  with  me,  in 
my  new  abode.  I  long  to  show  you  the  dear  soci- 
ety around  me,  and  the  pleasant  toils,  and  profit- 
able studies  that  employ  my  hours.  You  mean  to 
keep  your  word,  surely. 

Rien.  I  do,  indeed,  and  I  anticipate  great  de- 
light from  my  visit.  You  were  also  to  read  me 
some  of  your  recent  poetry,  you  know. 

Ger.  No  great  inducement,  that ;  still,  you 
will  find  it  some  improvement  on  my  earthly  verses. 


GERMANICUS — RIENZI.  267 

Rien.  And  then,  Germanicus,  I  am  to  show 
you,  in  return,  my  own  new  home  in  the  heavens. 
You  will  see  some  things  there,  I  am  sure,  that 
will  both  delight  and  surprise  you. 

Ger.  No  doubt,  no  doubt  ;  but  ah,  what  strains 
are  those  ? 

Rien.  'Tis  only  our  holy  brethren  of  San  Gre- 
gorio,  chanting  their  vespers  on  the  Coelian. 

Ger.  A  pleasant  sound,  truly.  But  come, 
brother,  to  wing,  to  wing. 

Bien.  Lead  on»  brother,  I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt. 


THE  END. 


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KAPOLEON. 
JOSEPHINE. 
MAP.IA  LO0I8A, 
DUKE  OF  REICH8TADT, 


LUCIEN  BONAPARTE, 
MARSHAL  JUNOT, 
CHARLES  BONAPARTE, 
PAULINE  BONAPARTE, 


MADAME  LAETITIA  BONAPARTE,  ELIZA   BONAPARTE, 
CUAELES  BONAPARTE, 

Probably  no  writer  has  had  the  same  op- 
portunities for  becoming  acquainted  with 

NAPOLEON  THE  GREAT 
as  the  Duchess  D'Abrantes.  Ilcr  mother 
rocl^ed  him  in  his  cradle,  and  when  he 
quitted  Brienne  and  came  to  Paris,  she  guid- 
ed and  protected  his  younger  days.  Scarcely 
a  day  passed  without  his  visiting  her  liouse 
during  the  period  which  preceded  his  depar- 
ture for  Italy  as 

COMMANDEPv-IN-CIIIEF. 
Abundant  occasion  was    therefore    had   for 
watchincr  the  development  of  the  great  genius 
who   afterwards  became  tho  master  of  the 
greater  part  of  Europe. 

MAESHAL  JUNOT, 
who  became  allied  to  the  autnor  of  this  work 
by  marriasre,  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Na- 
poleon, and  figured  in  most  of  the 

BRILLIANT  ENGAGEMENTS 
which  rendered  him  the  greatest  military 
captain  of  the  asre.  No  interruption  took 
place  in  the  intinjacy  which  she  enjoyed,  so 
that  in  all  these  scenes,  embracing  a  period 
of  nearly 

THIRTY  YEARS, 
the  Duchess  became  familiar  with  all  the 
secret  springs  of 

NAPOLEON'S  ACTIONS, 


JEROME  BONAPARTE, 
LOUIS  BONAPARTE, 
CARDINAL  FE8CH, 
LOUISA,  QUEEN  OF  PBUSBU, 
JOSEPH  BONAPARTE. 


either  through  her  husband  or  by  her  cwn 
personal  knowledge  and  observation  at  tho 
Court  of  Napoleon. 

JOSEPIIINE, 
whose  life  and  character  so  peculiarly  attract 
the  attention  of  all  readers,  occupies  a  great 
part  of  the  first  volume.    The  character  and 
the  deeds  of 

THE  EMPERORS  AND  KINGS, 

THE  GREAT  MEN  OF  THE  DAY, 

THE  MARSHALS  OF  THE  EMPIRE, 

THE   DISTINGUISHED   LADIES   OF 

THE  COURT, 

are  described  with  minuteness,   which   pei 

sonal  ohserv:ition  only  admits  of.    The  work 

is  written  in  that 

FAMILIAR  GOSSIPING  STYLE, 
and  so  interspersed  with   anecdotes  that  the 
reader  never  wearies.     She   has  put  every 
thing  in  her  book — great  events  and  small. 

B.iTTLES  AND  BALLS, 

COURT  INTRIGUES  AND  BOUDOIR 

GOSSIP, 

TREATIES  AND  FLIRTATIONS, 

making  two  of  the  most  charming  volumef 

of  memoirs,  which  will  interest  the  reader 

in  spite  of  himself. 


Opinions  of  the  Press. 

"  These  anecdotes  of  Napoleon  are  the  best  yet  given  to  the  world,  because  the  most 
Intimate  and  familiar." — London  Literary  Giizette. 

"  We  consider  the  performance  now  before  us  as  more  authentic  and  amusing  than  any 
other  (if  its  kind." — London  Qiiarterly  Review. 

"  Every  thing  relating  to  Napoleon  is  eagerly  sought  for  and  read  in  this  country  as  well 
tB  In  Eui ope,  and  this  work,  with  its  extraordinary  attractions,  will  not  fail  to  command 
» wide  circulation.  Madame  Junot  possessed  qualifications  for  writing  a  semi-domestic 
history  of  the  great  Corsican  which  no  other  person,  male  or  female,  could  command."— 
Life  lUuatrated. 


D.  APPLETON  a,  CO:S  PUBLICATIONS. 
A  \Vork  abounding  in  Exciting  Scenes  and  Remarkable  Incidents. 


Capt.    Canot ; 


OR, 

TWENTY  YEARS  OF  AN  AFRICAN  SLAVER : 

BEING   AN   ACCOUNT   OF   HIS   CAREEK   AND  ADVENTURES  ON  THE  COAST,  19 
THE   INTERIOR,    ON   SHIPBOARD,    AND   IN   THE   "WEST  INDIES. 

Written  out  and  Edited  from  the  Captain'' s  Journals,  Memoranda,  and  Oonveraationt. 

BY    BRANT  Z    MAYER. 

One  Volume,  "12nio.    With  eight  Illustrations.    Price  $1  26. 


Criticisms  of  the  Press. 

"The  author  is  a  literary  gentleman  (if  Baltimore,  no  Abolitionist,  and  we  believe  tfc» 
t\'ork  to  be  a  trutliful  account  of  the  life  of  a  man  who  saw  much  more  than  falls  to  the  lot 
of  most  men." — Commomcealth. 

"  A  remarkable  volume  is  this;  because  of  its  undoubted  truth  :  It  having  been  derived 
by  Mayer  from  personal  conversations  with  Canot,  and  from  journals  which  the  slaver  fur- 
nished of  his  own  life." —  Worcester  Palladium. 

"  Capt.  Canot,  the  hereof  the  narrative,  is,  to  our  own  knowledge,  a  veritable  person- 
age, and  resides  in  Baltimore.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  main  incidents  connected  with 
his  extraordinary  career  are  in  every  respect  true. ' — Arthur's  Home  GazHte.. 

"  Under  one  aspect,  as  the  biography  of  a  rem.arkable  man  who  passed  through  a  sin- 
gularly strange  and  eventful  experience,  it  is  as  interesting  as  any  sea  story  that  we  have 
ever  read." — Boston  Evening  Traveller. 

"Capt.  Canot  has  certainly  passed  through  a  life  of  difficulty,  danger,  and  wild,  daring 
adventure,  which  has  much  the  air  of  romance,  anil  still  he,  or  rather  his  editor,  tells  the 
tile  with  so  much  straightforwardness,  that  we  cannot  doubt  its  truthfulness." — New  York 
Sunday  Desi>aU:lu 

"The  Work  could  not  have  been  better  done  if  the  principal  actor  had  combined 
the  descriptive  talent  of  De  Foe  with  the  astuteness  of  Kouche  and  the  de.xterity  of  Gi. 
Bias,  which  traits  are  ascribed  to  the  worthy  whose  acquaintance  we  shall  soon  make  by 
bis  admiring  editor. '" — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"The  general  style  of  the  work  is  attractive,  and  the  narrative  spirited  and  bold — well 
suited  to  the  daring  and  hazardous  course  of  life  led  by  the  adventurer.  This  book  is  illus- 
trated by  si'veral  excellent  engravings." — Baltimore  American. 

"Tlie  biography  of  an  African  slaver  as  taken  from  his  own  li[)S,  and  giving  his  adven- 
tures in  this  trathc  for  twenty  years.  With  great  natural  keenness  of  perception  and  com- 
plete communicativeness,  he  has  literally  uiima-sked  his  real  life,  and  tells  both  what  h« 
was  and  ichat  he  saip,  the  latter  being  the  Photograph  of  the  Negro  in  Africa,  which  has 
been  so  Ion;;  wanted.  A  nephew  of  Mr.  Mayer  has  illustrated  the  volume  with  eight  ad- 
mirable drawings.  We  should  think  no  book  of  the  jiresent  day  would  be  received  with 
so  keen  an  interest" — Home  Journal. 

'•  Capt.  Canot  has  passed  most  of  his  life  since  1319  on  the  ocean,  and  his  catalogue  of 
adventures  at  sea  and  on  land,  rival  in  srotesqueness  and  apparent  improbability  the  mar- 
vels of  Uobinson  Crusoe." — Earning  Post. 

"If  stirring  incidents,  hair-breadth  escapes,  and  variety  of  adventure,  can  make  a  book 
Interesting,  this  must  possess  abundant  attractions."— A'isicdrA;  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  This  is  a  true  record  of  the  life  of  one  who  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  days  in 
dealing  in  human  flesh.  We  commend  this  book  to  all  lovers  of  adventure." — Boston 
Chrixtian  Recorder. 

"  We  would  advise  every  one  who  is  a  lover  of  '  books  that  are  books' — every  one  who 
•dmires  Le  Sage  and  De  Foe,  and  has  lingered  long  over  the  charming  pages  of  Gil  Blaa 
Md  Robinson  Cnuoe — every  one,  pro-slavery  or  anti-slavery,  to  purchase  this  book."— 
Buffalo  Courier 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO:S  PUBLICATIONS. 
BeT.  Samuel  Osgood's  Two  Popular  Books. 


Mile  Stones  in  our  Life  Journey 

SECOND   EDITION. 
One  Volume,  12mo.    Cloth.    Pnce  $1, 


Opinions  of  the  Press. 

"  In  so  small  a  compsss,  wo  rarely  meet  with  more  Catholic  sjTnpathies,  and  with  I 
clearer  or  more  practical  view  of  the  privileces  enjoyed  by,  and  the  duties  enjoined,  upoB 
as  all,  at  any  stage  of  our  mortal  pilgrimaci." — Church  Journal. 

"Some  passages  remind  us  forcit)ly  of  Addison  and  Goldsmith." — Independent. 

"This  little  volume  is  one  of  those  books  which  are  read  by  all  classes  at  all  stages  ol 
life,  with  an  interest  which  loses  nothing  by  change  or  circumstances." — Pennsylvanian. 

"  He  writes  kindly ;  strongly  and  readably;  nor  is  their  any  thing  in  this  volume  of  t 
narrow,  bigoted,  or  sectarian  character." — Life  Jlluntrated. 

"  His  counsels  are  faithful  and  wholesome,  his  reflection  touching,  and  the  whole  is 
clothed  in  a  style  gr.aceful  and  treQ."— Hartford  Relig.  Herald. 

"  This  is  a  volume  of  beautiful  and  cogent  essays,  virtuous  in  motive,  simple  in  expres- 
sion, pertinent  and  admirable  in  logic,  and  glorious  in  conclusion  and  climax." — Buffal* 
Eacpresa. 

"It  is  written  with  exquisite  taste,  is  full  of  beautiful  thought  most  felicitously  OS- 
pressed,  and  is  pervaded  by  a  genial  and  benevolent  spirit." — Dr.  Sprague. 

"  Almost  every  page  has  a  tincture  of  elegant  scholarship,  and  bears  witness  to  an  ox- 
tensive  reading  of  good  authors."— .Sryaw^. 


II. 

The  Hearth-Stone  ; 

THOUGHTS  UPON  HOME  LIFE  IN  OUR  CITIES. 
BY  SAilUEL  OSGOOD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "STUDIES  IN  CHRISTIAN  BIOQEAPHT,"  "GOD  WITH  MEN,"  Kta 

FOUKTH   EDITION. 

One  Volume,  12mo.    Cloth.    Prlc«  $1. 


Criticisms  of  the  Press. 

"This  is  a  volume  of  elegant  and  impressive  essays  on  the  domestic  relations  and  reli- 
gious duties  of  the  household.  Mr.  Osgood  writes  on  these  interesting  themes  in  the  most 
charming  and  animated  style,  winning  the  reader's  judgment  rather  than  coercing  it  to  ths 
buthor's  conclusions.  The  predominant  sentiments  in  the  book  are  purity,  sincerity,  and 
love.  A  more  delightful  volume  has  rarely  been  published,  and  we  trust  it  will  have  t 
wi(ie  circulation,  for  its  influence  must  be  salutary  upon  botli  old  and  yoimg." — Commer- 
cial Advertiser. 

"  The '  Hearth-Stone'  is  the  symbol  of  all  those  delightful  truths  which  Mr.  Osgood  her* 
connects  with  it.  In  a  free  and  graceful  style,  varying  from  deep  solemnitj  to  the  most 
genial  and  lively  tone,  as  befits  his  range  of  subjects,  he  gives  attention  to  wise  though ta 
on  holy  things,  and  homely  truths.  His  volume  will  find  mar  y  -warm  hearts  Jo  which  It 
Will  address  itself." — Christian  Meaminer. 


L.  APPLETON  i:  CO.'S  PUBLICATION'S. 
A  Oreat  IVational  TW^ork. 


Party  Leaders. 


SKETCHES  OF 
JEFFERSON,  HAMILTON,  RANDOLPH,  JACKSON,  AND  CLAY: 
J  Including  Notice*  of  many  other  Distinguished  American  Statetmen 

BY  J.  G.  BALDWIN, 

(Now  of  Ban  Francisco,  Califwnia.)    Author  of  "  Flush  Times  of  jilabama  and  MissiuippL 
One  Yolame,  12mo.    Cloth.    Price  $1 


OPINIONS     OF    SMINENT     MEN. 

From  Ex-Pre^dent  Fillmoee. 

I  have  read  "  Party  Leaders"  with  great  satisfaction  and  delight,  and  return  you  a  thoa 
Band  thanks  for  the  pleasure  and  insujiction  1  have  derived  from  the  perusal. 
From,  Ilbnorable  Edwaed  Eveeett. 

What  little  I  have  as  yet  been  able  to  read  of  it,  has  impressed  me  very  favorably  in  re- 
ference to  the  ability  and  impartiality  with  which  it  Is  drawn  up.  I  am  prepared  to  read 
it  with  interest  and  advantage,  in  consequence  of  the  pleasure  I  derived  from  "The  Flush 
Times  in  Alabama." 

From  Honorable  J.  P.  Kennedy. 

I  was  greatly  delighted  with  the  fine,  discriminating,  acute  insight  with  which  the  cha- 
racters presented  in  the  work  are  drawn,  and  with  the  eloquent  style  of  the  sketches.  I 
but  repeat  the  common  opinion  of  the  best  judges,  which  I  hear  every  where  expressed, 
when  I  commend  these  qualities  of  the  book. 

"The  Flush  Times  of  Alabama"  had  whetted  my  desire  to  see  this  second  production 
of  Mr.  Baldwin's  pen,  and  1  can  hardly  express  to  yon  the  agreeable  surprise  I  enjoyed  in 
finding  a  work  of  such  surpassing  merit  in  a  tone  and  manner  so  entirely  different  from  the 
first— demonstrating  that  double  gift  in  the  author  which  enables  him  to  excel  in  two  such 
opposite  departments  of  literature. 

From  Hon.  E.  M.  T.  HcirrEE,  U.  8.  Senator  from  Virginia. 

I  have  read  "  Party  Leaders"  with  great  pleasure.    It  is  written  with  ability,  and  wifn 
fteshness,  and  grace  of  style,       *       *       *       The  chapters  on  Randolph  are  capital. 
From  Hon.  Ja^tes  M.  Mason,  U.  &  Senator fvom  Virginia.  . 

I  have  heard  "Party  Leaders"  highly  commended  by  those  competent  to  judge,  but 
confess  I  was  not  prepared  for  the  intellectual  and  literary  feast  its  rich  pages  have  yielded. 

Asa  literary  work,  I  shall  be  much  disappointed  if  it  does  not  place  its  author  at  once 
In  the  first  rank  of  American  literature,  and  even  in  old  England.    I  shall  look  for  its  place 
nett  to,  if  not  by  the  side  of,  the  kindred  works  of  M::Intosh  and  Macaulay. 
From  a  I>i«tinguiiihed  Statesman. 

It  is  a  noble  production,  full  of  profound  thought,  discriminating  judgment,  just  crlti 
etsm,  and  elevated  sentiments,  all  expressed  in  the  most  captivating  and  eloquent  style.  It 
U  m  book  just  according  to  my  fancy,  and,  I  think,  one  of  th«  most  captivating  in  oui 
tonguage. 


D.  APPLETON  &  C0:8  PUBLICATIONS. 
A  PracticEil  Book  ou  the  Breeding  of  Fish 


A  COMPLETE  TREATISE  ON 

Artificial  Fifli-Breeding : 

INCLUDING  THE  KEPOKTS  ON  THE  SUBJECT  MADE  TO  THE  FRENCH 

ACADEMY  AND  THE  FKENCH  GOYEENMENT,  AND  PAETICU- 

LAK3  OF  THE  DISCOVERY  AS  PURSUED  IN  ENGLAND. 

TKAX6LATED   AND   EDITED   BY 

WM.  H.  FRY. 
ILLUSTRATED    WITH    ENQRAVINOS. 

One  Volume.    12mo.    Cloth.    Price  75  cents. 


Opinions  of  the  Press. 

"  A  very  genial  aitd  entertaining,  though  practical  and  scientiflc  book.  No  one  who 
loves  the  existence  in  our  rivers,  brooks,  or  lakes,  of  trout  and  salmon,  should  be  without 
It" — Broome  Republic. 

"In  this  little  volume,  the  whole  process  of  fish-culture  is  described  so  plainly  and  with 
60  ninch  minuteness  that  any  person  will  have  no  difficulty  in  informing  himself  sufficiently 
well  to  engage  in  the  business ;  provided  he  has  the  necessary  facilities  and  leisure,  with  a 
Jtood  running  stream  or  pond,  and  the  proper  attention,  a  great  brood  of  fishes  may  be 
oatcbed  from  the  eggs,  and  raised  up  for  the  market  or  the  table ;  and  such  delicacies  are 
trout  and  salmon,  that  it  is  evident  that  the  business  of  producing  them  for  sale  may  bo 
made  profitable." —  Worcester  Palladium. 

"  This  discovery  is  treated  as  a  matter  of  great  public  benefit  in  France  and  England, 
where  it  is  practised  under  the  direction  and  patronage  of  Government,  and  is  beginning  to 
work  its  results  in  stocking  rivers  and  lakes,  with  the  finest  species  of  fish,  where  few  or 
oone  have  before  existed  for  many  years." — Ohio  Cultivator. 

"  Every  farmer  who  has  a  stream  flowing  through  his  land,  or  miller  who  wishes  to  turn 
Vis  ponds  to  some  account,  should  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  details  of  the  book." 
—Neioark  Daily  Advertiser. 


"  A  GREAT,  A  GLOEIOUS  BOOK."-Cour.  &  Enq 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  346  &  348  BROADWAY, 

HAVE  JUST  PUBLISDED 

THE  VIRGINIA  COMEDIANS; 

OE, 

@Iir  gap  ill  t\t  ©to  Daminioit. 

FROM  THE  MSS,  OF 

C.  EFFINGHAM,  Esq. 

Two  vols.  12mo.  paper,  $1;  cloth,  $1  50. 
A  volume  wMch  has  been  pronounced  the  best  novel  of  the  day. 


Peruse  the  criticisms  of  the  following  papers. 

"  It  Is  not  only  unlike  the  monstrous  mass  of  efforts  whJch  nave  preceded  It — and 
therefore,  attractive  in  the  light  of  comparison,  and  for  Its  perfect  newness — but  It  is 
freiehted  with  such  an  ardor  of  style,  fervor  of  imagination,  beauty  of  description,  both 
•s  regards  characters  and  scenes,  and  a  plenitude  of  genial  spirit,  that  Its  reader  is  sure 
to  be  Its  lover. 

"  The  story,  which  commences  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  Is  located  in 
Virginia,  Its  personce  in  dramatis  being  composed  of  many  choice  spirits  who  figured, 
or  were  supposed  to  figure,  at  that  period.  "We  have  not  seen  Its  equal  for  many  a  day, 
and  heartily  apply  to  it  the  old  verse, 

'  May  this  book  continue  in  motion. 
And  its  leaves  every  day  be  unfurled.'  " 

Buffalo  Courier. 

"  The  period  of  the  story  is  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century ;  the  place  Williams- 
barg,  Virginia,  and  Its  vicinity;  the  characters  Virginia  gentlemen  of  that  day  and 
generation,  among  whom  comes  Beatrice  ffallam,  the  leading  actress  of  a  company  ol 
comedians  of  that  Ilk,  and  one  of  the  most  striking,  truthful,  and  lovable  characters  In 
modem  fiction.  The  Interest  of  the  book  never  flags.  The  characters  are  such  that  we 
eannot  be  indifferent  to  them,  and  the  author  absorbs  us  in  their  actions  and  their  fate." 
— Courier  <&  inquirer. 

"  The  tone  of  the  book  Is  Intensely  national.  It  has  come  on  ns  completely  by  Bur 
pilB«,  for  we  had  no  conception  of  Ita  character,  nntU  we  were  half  through  the  flnt 
Tolume,  and  we  must  confess  that  we  were  at  the  outset  extremely  unprepared  ftit 
faoh  a  display  of  Uterary  power." — y.  Y.  ExpreM. 


D.   APFLETON  &  C0MPANT8  PUBLICATIONS. 

The   Great  Work  on   Russia. 

Fifth  Edition  now  ready. 


RUSSIA    AS    IT  IS. 

By  Count  A.  de  Gurowski. 

One  neat  volume  12tno.,  pp.328,  well  printed.    Prico  $1,  cloth. 

CONTENTS. — Preface. — Introduction. — Czarism:  its  historical  origin — ^Tb 
Czar  Nicholas. — The  Organization  of  the  Government. — ^The  Army  and 
Navy. — The  Nobility. — ^The  Clergy. — ^The  Bourgeoisie — The  Cossacks.- 
The  Real  People,  the  Peasantry. — Tlie  Rights  of  Aliens  and  Strangers. 
— The  Commoner. — Emancipation. — Manifest  Destiny. — Appendix. — 
The  Amazons. — ^The  Fourteen  Classes  of  the  Russian  Public  Service  ;  or, 
the  Tschins. — The  Political  Testament  of  Peter  the  Great. — Extract 
from  an  Old  Chronicle. 


Notices  of  the  Press. 


"The  author  takes  no  superficial,  empirical  view  of  his  subject,  but  collectins  a  rich 
variety  of  facts,  brings  the  lights  of  a  profound  philosophy  to  their  explanation.  His  work. 
Indeed,  neglects  no  essential  detail — it  is  minute  and  accurate  in  its  statistics — it  abounds 
In  lively  pictures  of  .society,  manners  and  character.  *  *  Whoever  wishes  to  obtain  an 
accurate  notion  of  the  internal  condition  of  Russia,  the  nature  and  extent  of  her  resources, 
and  the  practical  influence  of  her  institutions,  will  here  find  better  materials  for  his  pur- 
pose than  in  any  single  volume  now  extant." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  This  is  a  powerfull-y-written  book,  and  will  prove  of  vast  service  to  every  one  who 
desires  to  comprehend  the  real  nature  and  bearings  of  the  great  contest  in  which  Russia  is 
now  engaged.'' — N.  Y.  Courier. 

"  It  is  original  in  its  conclusions ;  it  Is  striking  in  its  revelations.  Numerous  as  are  tht 
volumes  that  have  been  written  about  Russia,  we  really  hitherto  have  known  little  of  that 
Immense  territory — of  that  numerous  people.  Count  Gurowski's  work  sheds  a  light  which 
at  this  time  is  most  welcome  and  satisfactory." — N.  Y.  Times. 

"The  book  is  well  written,  and  as  might  be  expected  in  a  work  by  a  writer  so  unu- 
sually conversant  with  all  sides  of  Russian  affairs,  it  contains  so  much  important  InformatioB 
respecting  the  Russian  people,  their  government  and  religion." — Com.  Advertiser. 

"This  is  a  valuabk  work,  explaining  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner  the  internal  conditions 
of  the  Russian  people,  and  the  construction  of  their  political  society.  The  institutions  of 
Russia  are  presented  as  they  exist  in  reality,  and  as  they  are  determined  by  existing  and 
obligatory  laws." — M.  Y.  Herald. 

"  A  hasty  glanc*  over  this  handsome  volume  has  satisfied  us  that  it  is  one  worthy  of 
general  perusal.  *     *     It  is  full  of  valuable  historical  information,  with  very  interest- 

ing accounts  of  ftie  various  classes  among  the  Russian  people,  their  condition  and  aspi 
rations." — 2^.  Y.  Sun. 

"This  is  a  volume  that  can  hardly  fail  to  attract  very  general  attention,  and  command  a 
wide  sale  In  view  of  the  present  juncture  of  European  affairs,  and  the  prominent  part 
therein  which  Russia  is  to  play." —  Cftica  Gazette. 

"  A  timely  book.  It  will  be  found  all  that  it  professes  to  be,  though  some  may  be  start 
M  Hi  some  of  its  conclusions." — Boston  Atlas. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  bestof  all  the  books  caused  by  the  present  excitement  In  relation  t« 
Russia.  It  is  a  very  able  publication — one  that  will  do  much  to  destroy  the  general  belief 
In  the  infallibility  of  Russia.  The  writer  shows  himself  master  of  his  subject,  and  treats  of 
the  Internal  condition  of  Russia,  her  institutions  aud  cnstoirvs,  society,  laws,  &c.,  in  an  eb 
Mghtened  and  scholarly  mann»r." — City  Itein. 


D.  APPLE  TUN  ^  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS 

OAPT.  FOOTE'S  NEW  AND  HIGHLY  INTERESTING  WORK 


Africa  and  the  American   Flag. 

BY  COMMANDER  ANDREW  H.  FOOTE, 

Luut.  Commanding  U.  S.  Brig  "  Perry^''  on  the  Coast  of  Africa, 

A.  D.  1850-51. 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH  HANDSOMELY  TINTED  LITHOGRAPHIC  PLATEa 

One  Volume,  12mo.  379  pages.     Price  $1  50. 


CONTENTS. 
Discoveries  by  French  and  Portuguese  along  the  Coa.?t— Slave  Trade  Systematized 

"Horrors  of  the  Middle  Passage" — African  Nations— Formation  of  the  American 

Colonization  Society — Disposal  of  Recaptured  Slaves  by  the  American  Government— 
The  Commonwealth  of  Liberia— Thos.  11.  Buchanan— Use  of  the  American  Flag  in 
the  Slave  Trade— Slavers  at  Bassa— Expedition  against  them— Conflict- Death  of  King 
Bentrerai — Expedition  of  Buchanan  against  Gaytinuba— Death  of  Buchanan— His 
Character— Condition  of  Liberia  as  a  Nation— Aspect  of  Liberia  to  a  Visitor— Condition 
Df  the  People  compared  with  that  of  their  race  in  the  United  States— Schools— Condi- 
tion of  Slaves  on  board  of  the  Slave  Vessels — Capture  of  the  Slave  Barque  Pons — Affair 
with  the  Natives  near  Palmas — Cruise  of  the  "  Perry" — Abuse  of  the  American  Flag— 
An  Arrangement  made  with  the  British  Commodore  for  the  Joint  Cruising  of  the 
"  Perry"  and  Steamer  "Cyclops" — Capture  of  the  American  Slave  Ship  "Martha" — 
Claims  to  Brazilian  Nationality— Letters  found  on  board  illustrative  of  the  Slave  Trade 
— St  Helena- Appearance  of  the  Island — Island  of  Madeira— Interference  of  the  British 
Consul  with  the  "  Louisa  Benton"— Necessity  of  Squadrons  for  Protection  of  Com- 
merce and  Citizens  Abroad. 

This  very  interesting  volume  makes  us  acquainted  with  very  im- 
portant facts  connected  with  the  efforts  of  the  American  Government 
to  suppress  the  Slave  Trade  on  the  Coast  of  Africa.  Lieut.  Foote  not 
only  places  before  us  a  record  of  what  occurred  whilst  he  was  in  com- 
mand of  the  U.  S.  Brig  "  Perry,"  but  gives  us  an  account  of  the  History 
and  Government  of  the  African  Race — their  Manners  and  Customs,  an 
Account  of  the  Establishment  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Liberia,  ita 
Condition,  Prospects,  <fec.,  <fec.  It  abounds  with  every  varieiy  of  inci- 
d'snt  and  adventure,  and  will,  from  the  very  novelty  of  tlie  subjtsct, 
have  a  wide  sale.  In  order  that  some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  ch» 
ract«r  of  the  work,  a  selection  from  the  table  of  contents  is  prefixed. 


Bartlell's    American  Exploring  Expedition. 

D.  APPLETON  &  COxMPANY, 

H«ve  tue  pleasuie  '    announce  that  they  have  just  published  the  foUowinjj  ImportaB* 
National  Work : 

PERSONAL    NARRATIVE 

OF  EXPLORATIONS  AND  INCIDENTS 
Dl    TEXAS,  NEW   MEXICO,   CALIFOENIA,   SONOEA  AND   CHIHUAHUA 

In  thk  Teaes  1850,  '51,  '52  &  '53. 

CONNECTED   ■WITH  THE  MEXICAN   BOUNDAET  OOlUOaaiOW. 

By  JOHN  RUSSELL  BARTLETT, 

United    States   Commissioner   during  that  period. 

Wi&  very  numerous  Tinted  Illustrations  and  a  Map,  and  over  100  "Wood-cuts.     Coini»UU 
in  two  volumes,  octavo,  of  over  500  pages  each,  handsomely  printed  in  pics 
type,  on  extra  flno  paper.    Price  $5,  in  emblematic  cloth. 


The  work  omDraecs  the  following  distinct  journeys,  performed  during  the  progress  o( 
tbe  survey : — 

1.  A  Journey  from  Indianola,  Texas,  to  El  Paso  del  Norto. 

2.  A  .Tourney  to  the  Copper  Mines  in  tlie  Rocky  Mountains,  near  the  GUa,  snd  a  reel- 
dence  there  of  four  months. 

8.  A  Journey  i.o  Arispe  in  Sonora. 

4.  A  Journey  nlongthe  boundary  line  south  of  the  Gila,  and  thence  through  another 
part  of  Sonora  tc  iiuaynia?,  on  the  Gulf  of  California. 

5.  A  Voyage  douvn  tho  Gulf  of  California  to  Mazatlan  and  Acapulco,  and  thence  to  San 
Francisco. 

6.  Various  Journeys  in  the  Interior  of  California. 

7.  A  Journey  from  San  Dieso,  California,  by  way  of  the  Gila,  and  through  tho  States  of 
Sonora  and  Chihuahua  to  El  Paso. 

8.  A  Journey  from  El  Paso  through  the  States  of  Chihuahua,  Dnrango,  Zacatecas,  Coft- 
huilft,  and  Tamanlipas,  to  Camargo,  on  the  Lower  PJo  Grande,  and  thence  through  tho  South 
Western  part  of  Texas  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

List  of  the  larger  Tinted  Illustrations. 

ToLtruB  I. — Snow  Storm  on  Delaware  Creek,  near  the  Pecos,  Texas. — 2.  Guadalupe  Paai 
on  Cooke's  Road,  Sierra  Madre,  Sonora. — 3.  Valley  Leading  to  Santa  Cruz,  Sonora. — i. 
City  of  Hermosillo,  Sonora. — 5.  City  of  Mazatlan,  Pacific  Coast. — 6.  City  of  Acapulco, 
Pacific  Coast 

ToLUME  II. — Ruins  at  Casas  Grandes,  Chihuahua. — 2.  Geysers,  Pluton  River,  California.— 
8.  Geysers,  Plutou  River,  California. — 1  Napa  Valley  from  the  Obsidian  ITills,  Califor- 
nia.—o.  Ascent  to  the  Quicksilver  Mine,  New  AlmaJen. — 6.  View  on  the  River  Gila, 
Big  Rom  Mountain. — 7.  Casas  Grandes,  River  GiLa. — S.  Ruins  at  Casas  Grandes,  Chi- 
huahua.— 9.  Organ  Mountains,  New  Mexico. — 10.  Fort  Yuma,  Junction  of  the  Gila  and 
Colorado  Rivers. 

This  work  will  throw  a  flood  of  light  on  the  distant  and  hitherto  unknown  countiiet 
which  are  now  attracting  so  much  attention.  The  vast  mineral  wealth  of  the  frontiet 
States  of  Mexico  embraceil  in  these  explorations — the  new  treaty  with  Mexico,  made  by  tht 
American  Minister,  General  Gadsden,  for  the  purchase  of  a  large  portion  of  this  territory — 
the  contemplated  railroad  through  it,  and  the  advantages  offered  for  mining  and  agiioul- 
tar&l  purposes  in  our  newly  acquired  territories,  as  well  as  those  contiguous,  render  thb 
•roTk  at  this  time  one  of  th9  most  important  of  ,he  publications  of  the  day. 


V.  APPLETON  f  CO:S  PUBL  CJTIOIi^ 

Standard  Historical  Works. 

I. 

THE  HISTORY    OF   ROME. 

By  THOMAS  ARNOLD,  D.  D.,  Late  Regius  Professor  of  Modem  Hi» 
tory  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  and  Head  Master  of  Rugb> 
Scbool.     1  large  vol.  8vo.  pp.  686.     Price  $3. 

II. 

HISTORY    OF   FRANCE, 

FEOM  THE  EAKLLEST  PERIOD  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 
By  M.  MICHELET,  Professor  a  la  Faculty  des   Lettres,   Professor  i 
I'Ecole  Xormale,  <tc.     Translated  by  G.  H.  Smith,  F.  G.  S      2  Tok. 
8vo.  pp.  480  and  400.     Price  $3  50. 

III. 
HISTORY    OF    GERMANY, 

FKOM  THE  EARLIEST  PERIOD  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 
By  FREDERICK  KOHLRAUSCH.     Translated  from  the  last  German 
Edition.     By  James  D.  Haas.     With  a  complete  index  prepared  ex- 
pressly for  the  American  edition.     1  vol.  8vo.  pp.487.     Price  $1  50  j 
or,  an  Illustrated  Edition,  neatly  bound,  $2  50. 

IV. 

HISTORY    OF   ENGLAND, 

FROM  THE  PEACE  OF  UTRECHT  TO  THE  PEACE  OF  PARIS. 
By  LORD  MAHON.     2  large  vols.  Svo.  pp.  590,  609,  well  printed,  $4. 

V. 

A  DIGEST  OF  THE  LAWS,  CUSTOMS,  MANNERS,  AND 

INSTITUTIONS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN 

NATIONS. 

By  THOMAS  DEW,  Late  President  of  the  College  of  William  and 
Mary.     1  vol.  8vo.  pp.  G70,  well  printed.     Price  f2. 

VI. 

A  MANUAL  OF  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  HISTORY. 
By  W.  C.  TAYLOR,  LL.  D.,  &c.  1  large  volume,  Svo.  pp.  866.  Price  2  25 

VII. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  CIVILIZATION,  FROM  THE  FALL  OP 

THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE  TO  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 
By  F.  GUIZOT.     Translated  bv  W  Hazlitt     4  vols.  12mo.     $3  60 


O.  APPLE  TUN  jr  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


Important  Philosophical  Works. 

I. 

PHILOSOPnY  OF  SIR  WILLIAM  HAMILTON,  BART^ 

Professor  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics  in  Edinburgh  University.  Arranged 
and  edited  by  0.  W.  WIGHT,  Translator  of  Cousin's  "History  oi 
Modern  Philosophy."     One  vol.  8to.,  pp.  530,  well  printed.     $1  50. 

"Sir  William  Hamilton  has  attained  to  the  very  highest  distinction  as  a  philosopher, 
knd  in  some  respects  bo  is  decidedly  superior  to  any  of  his  illustrious  predecessors — 
Eeid,  Stuart,  or  Brown.  With  a  remarkable  power  of  analysis  and  discrimination,  ht 
he  combines  great  decision  and  elegance  of  style,  and  a  degree  of  erudition  th»t  li 
almost  without  a  parallel." — Ediiiburgh  Review. 


II. 

COURSE  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  MODERN  PHILOSOPHY. 

By  M.  VICTOR  COUSIN.     Translated  by  0.  W.  Wight.     Two  volumM 

8vo.,  well  printed.     Price  $3. 


III. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

From  the  French  of  VICTOR  COUSIN.     Translated,  with  notes,  by  J. 
C.  Daniel.     One  neat  vol.  12mo.     Price  63  cents. 


IV. 

LECTURES  ON  THE  TRUE,  THE  BEAUTIFUL,  AND 

THE  GOOD. 

By  VICTOR  COUSIN.  Translated  by  0.  W.  Wight.  One  neat  vol.  8va 

"M.  Cousin  is  the  greatest  philosopher  of  France." — Sir  William  ffamilion. 

"  A  writer,  whose  pointed  periods  have  touched  the  chords  of  modern  society,  and 
thrilled  through  the  minds  of  thousands  in  almost  every  quarter  of  the  civilized  world." 
—•Edinburgh  Eeview. 


V. 

THE  POSITIVE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  AUGUSTE  COMTE. 

Freely  Translated  and  Condensed  by  HARRIET  MARTINEAU,     Two 

volumes  8vo.  pp.  616,  611,  well  printed.     Price  $4. 


Dumas's  last  and  best  Book. 


D.    APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 

HATK      JUST      READY       THE      FIFTH       THOUSAND       Ot 

THE    FORESTERS. 

BY    ALEX.    DUMAS. 
IBAirSLATED     FROM     TUB     AUTHOR 's     ORIGINAL     MSB. 

I  neat  vol.  12mo.  In  paper,  50  cents ;  cloth,  75  conta. 


OONTENTS.— To  my  Daughter.— The  New  House  on  the  Road  to  Soiwoiu 
— Mathieu  Goguelue. — A  Bird  of  Evil  Omeu. — Catherine  Blun, — Th* 
Parisian. — Jealousy. — Father  and  Mother. — The  Return. — Mademoiselle 
Euphrosinc  Raisin. — Loves  Young  Dream. — The  Abbe  Gregoire. — 
Father  and  Son. — The  Village  Fete. — A  Snake  in  the  Grass. — Tempta- 
tion and  Crime. — The  Ranger's  Home. — Apprehension. — The  Book  of 
the  Innocent. — ^IVIathieu's  Trial 


Notices  of  the  Press. 

''  A  lively  story  of  love,  jealousy,  and  intrigue." — JV.  Y.  Com.  Advertiser. 

"  Anottier  proof  of  Dumas's  unrivalled  talent." — Middletown  Sentinel. 

■•The  tale  is  a  simple  one,  but  exciting;  and  interesting.  The  scene  is  luid  in  Villws- 
Oi  erets  in  France.  Tlie  reputation  of  the  autlior  is  so  firmly  established,  that  in  oni 
Btt  Ing  that  tlie  translatijn  is  a  faithful  one,  our  readers  who  are  novel  readers  will  have 
hoaid  suflicient" — Phila.  lieginter. 

"  A  capital  story.    The  reader  will  find  the  interest  increase  to  the  end." — Phila.  Gaz. 

"The  present  volume  fully  sustains  the  high  reputation  of  its  author;  it  shows  a  very 
high  order  of  genius.  The  transhition  is  such  perfectly  good  English,  that  we  easily  forget 
that  we  are  not  reading  the  work  in  the  language  iu  which  it  was  originally  written." — 
Albany  Argux. 

"A  sliort,  but  stirring  romance."— jffosiow  Atlas. 

"This  work  of  Dumas's  is  an  Interesting  one.  The  plot  is  well  laid,  and  the  incidents 
hurry  on,  one  aftei  another,  so  rapidly  that  the  interest  is  kept  up  to  the  close." — Ilartford 
Courant. 

"  It  is  a  capital  story,  and  an  unmistakable  Dumas's  work.  To  say  this,  is  to  bestow  upo> 
ItsuflScient  praise." — Troy  Times. 

"This  now  story  of  Dumas  will  afford  a  delightful  resource  for  a  leisure  hour." — Th4 
Bisarre. 

"This  very  entertaining  novel  is  indubitably  one  of  Dumas's  best  efforts:  it  cannot  f«il  t« 
b«eome  widely  popular." — N.  Y.  Courier. 

"A  phasing,  romantic  love  story,  written  with  the  author's  usual  vigor." — Newark  Adv. 

•*  A  quiet  domestic  tale  that  must  charm  all  readers.'' — Syracuse  Daily. 

**  This  is  a  lively  story  of  love,  jealousy  and  intrigue,  in  a  French  village." — Phila.  VaUg 
fXtnfs. 

"The  fame  of  the  author  will  aloiio  secure  a  wide  circulation  for  this  book.  He  i»  ODi 
of  the  best  novel  writers  living.  'The  Foresters'  fully  sustains  his  great  reputation."— 
Troy  Daily  Times. 

"This  exceedingly  entertaining  novel  is  from  tlie  pen  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  t-ni 
flelebratcd  of  Modern  French  novelists — Alexander  Dumas." — Binghampton  Repiihlican. 

"This  producti.m  of  the  celebrated  author,  is  written  In  the  same  masterly  style  fot 
vhlch  all  his  works  are  noted." — Hartford  Times. 

"The  Foresters,  as  a  work  by  itself,  is  one  of  many  chariri.  That  the  book  will  bt 
Mfwrly  sought  alter,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  That  every  reader  will  admire  it  is  none  tb« 
teas  certain. — Buffalo  Morning  Express. 

"It  will  be  found  an  interesting  story."— vlr<Aur'«  Home  Gazette. 

••Tueplot  Is  extremelv  pleasine.  and  tho  book  trus^  -npet  wi»b  a  ready  and  o-tenntv* 
•*'«.*■ — f^y.-racnsf  D  iHv 


PARKY^■S'  ADVENTURES  IN  ABYSSINIA 

D.  AI'PLKTON   .t  COMPANY,  346  &.  348  Bkoadway 

HAVE   JUST  PUBLISHED 

LIFE  IN  ABYSSINIA, 

fieinsr  the  Personal  Narrative  of  an  Englishman,  a  long  resident  in  tbi> 
Country. 

By  MANSFIELD  PARKYNS,  Eso. 
"With  Illustrations.     2  vols.  l2mo.     Price,  $2  50.     Cloth. 


LITERARY  CRITICISMS. 

"  Of  one  thing  we  are  convinced,  and  that  Is,  that  few  that  take  up  "  Life  in 
Abyssinia,"  will  lay  it  down  without  reading  it  through,  and  without  exclaiming 
when  they  come  to  the  end  "what  an  amusing  book  this  is,  and  what  an  agreeabl« 
ta\age  is  Mansfield  Parkyns." — BlackicoocTs  Magazine. 

"  Since  the  appearance  of  "  Typee  and  Omoo,"  we  have  seen  no  more  agreeable 
volumes  of  travel  than  those  of  Mr.  Parkyns."— £'fe.  Post. 

"  Mr.  Marsfield  Parkyns  is  no  tourist,  but  a  genuine  traveller.  Tn  acquaintance 
with  E.istern  languages  and  manners  he  is  a  Buckhardt ;  his  liking  for  Natural  History 
and  assiduity  as  a  eollector,  reminds  us  of  Waterton ;  while  in  his  pa.ssion  for  the 
cnase,  and  occasional  introduction  of  elephants,  giraffes,  and  lions,  he  bears  an  obvious 
likenpss  to  Campbell  or  Gordon  C-amming.''^— Dublin  Magazine. 

"Remarkably  entertaining  and  interesting  volumes,  brimfull  of  adventures  and 
life.  We  have  read  them  with  perfect  gusto,  and  cordially  join  "Blackwood's  recom- 
mendation."— Boston  Atlas. 

"  A  story  of  three  years  in  Abyssinian  life,  by  one  so  keen  in  observation  and  fond 
of  adventure  as  Mr.  Parkyns  could  not  but  promise  a  great  attraction ;  and  no  one 
who  opens  this  book  will  lay  it  down  in  disappointment  He  sketches  the  incidents 
of  his  travels  with  great  distinctness  and  vividness  and  portrays  character,  wherever 
he  meets  it,  capitally." — JVi  Y.  Courier. 

"  The  author  appears  to  have  become  thoroughly  naturalized  among  the  singular 
people  with  whom  it  was  his  lot  to  dwell,  and  tells  the  story  of  his  adventures  with  a 
Mveliness  and  freedom  from  reserve  that  are  extremely  captivating." — Jour,  of  Com. 

"  Dullness  certainly  has  no  share  in  Mr.  Parkyns'  composition — it  is  a  capital 
book."— f.  S.  Gazette. 

"This  is  no  ordinary  production." — Albany  Argus. 

"  Attractive  as  a  romance  while  they  have  the  merit  of  usefulness."- ^o«?o7i  Cour. 

"  The  most  interesting  book  of  travel  issued  from  the  press  in  many  years." — Phila. 
Courier. 

"  In  every  respect  the  volumes  are  truly  attractive." — American  Courier. 

"  We  have  been  highly  amused,  and,  we  must  say,  instructed,  in  the  perusal  of  Mi. 
Parkyn's  adventures."— .B;yfaZo  Demuerat. 

"  We  do  not  hesitate  to  commend  the  book  to  our  readers— It  will  amply  repay 
tbeir  atccntion." — Hartford  Times. 

"  The  work  fulfils  all  the  author  promises."— CArMWaii  Register. 

"  To  all  who  are  in  any  kind  of  trouble  from  hot  weather,  bad  temper,  unpaid  bili^ 
■od  the  like  annoyances,  we  would  recommend  this  book." — Providence  Journal. 

"  The  style  is  pleasant  and  many  of  the  incidents  are  piquant  and  startling."— iJocA#». 
'■er  American. 

"  These  are  two  dellghtftil  volumes  of  travel,  fresh,  racy  and  glowing  with  lUk."— 
Oom.  Adtertiter 


D.  APfLf:TON  4"  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  GREAT  KENTUCKY  NOVEL. 


D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY 

HAVE    JUST    PUBLISHED 

Tempest  and   Sunfliine  ;    or,   Life  in 
Kentucky. 

BY  MRS.  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 

One  Volume,  12mo      Paper  covers,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1. 

These  are  the  most  striking  and  original  sketches  of  American 
character  in  the  South-western  States  which  have  ever  been  pub 
lished.  The  character  of  Tempest  is  drawn  with  all  that  spirit  and 
energy  which  characterize  the  high  toned  female  spirit  of  the 
South,  while  Sunshine  possesses  the  loveliness  and  gentleness  of 
the  sweetest  of  her  sex.  The  Planter  is  sketched  to  the  life,  and 
in  his  strongly  marked,  passionate,  and  generous  nature,  the  reader 
will  recognize  one  of  the  truest  sons  of  the  south-west. 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 

"Thebookte  well  written,  and  its  fame  will  be  more  than  ephcmontL"— .B««^to 
Vxpresa. 

"  The  story  Is  interesting  and  finely  developed." — Daily  Times. 

"  A  lively  romance  of  western  life— the  style  of  the  writer  is  smart,  intelligent,  and 
wiiiniug,  and  her  6tory  is  told  with  spirit  and  skill." —  U.  S.  Gazette. 

"  An  excellent  work,  and  its  sale  must  be  extensive." — Stamford  Advocate. 

"  The  whole  is  relieved  by  a  generous  introduction  of  incident  as  well  as  by  an  am 
plitnde  of  love  and  mystery." — Express. 

"  A  delightful,  well  written  book,  portraying  western  life  to  the  letter.  The  book 
abounds  in  an  easy  humor,  with  touching  sentences  of  tenderness  and  pathos  scattp-ed 
through  it,  and  from  first  to  last  keeps  up  a  humane  interest  that  very  many  authors 
strive  in  vain  to  achieve.  '  Tempest '  and  '  Sunshine,'  two  sisters,  are  an  exempliflca- 
tion  of  the  good  that  to  some  comes  by  nature,  and  to  others  is  found  cnly  through 
trials,  temptation,  and  tribulation.  Mr.  Middleton,  the  father  of  'Tempest  and  'Bun 
shine,'  is  the  very  soul  and  spirit  of  '  Old  Kaintuck,'  abridged  into  one  mai».  The  b«>t 
is  worth  reading.  There  is  a  healthy  tone  of  morality  pervading  it  that  will  uiake  U  « 
lultable  work  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  our  daughters  and  sisters."— .ATew  York  Du% 
Book. 


n.  APPLETON  <b  CO:S  PUBLICATIONS. 


^k.    Claolce    ^kTex'CT-    'sn-r^  g^i  mn  ^-qi    Teil.&m 


FARMINGDALE, 

A  TALE. 

BY  CAROLINE  THOMAS. 
Two  volumes,  12nio.i  paper  covers,  75  cents,  or  2  volumes  in  1,  cloth,  $L 

**  It  is  e  story  of  New  England  life,  skilfully  told,  full  of  tender  interest,  healthy  In  Hi 
eenttments  and  remarkably  graphic  in  its  sketches  of  character.  '  Aunt  Betsy  '  ia  draws 
to  the  life," — Home  Gazette. 

"  Farmingdale  is  the  best  noyel  of  the  season." — Eve.  Post. 

'*  It  will  compare  favorably  with  the  '  Lamplighter,'  by  Miss  Cummings,  and  th« 
Wide,  Wide  World,'  by  Miss  Warner,  and  in  interest  it  is  quite  equal  to  either." — Boston 
Transcript. 

"  '  Farmingdale,'  the  work  to  which  we  allude.  In  every  page  and  paragraph,  is  redolent 
of  its  native  sky.  It  is  a  tale  of  New  England  domestic  life,  in  its  incidents  and  manners 
80  true  to  nature  and  so  free  from  exaggeration,  and  in  its  impulses  and  motives  throughout 
60  throbbing  with  the  real  American  heart,  that  we  shall  not  bo  surprised  to  hear  of  aa 
many  New  England  villages  claiming  to  be  the  scene  of  its  story,  as  were  the  cities  of 
Greece  that  claimed  to  be  the  birth-place  of  Homer." — Philadelphia  Courier. 

"  The  story  abounds  in  scenes  of  absorbing  interest  The  narration  is  every  where  de- 
ligh'fully  clear  and  straightforward,  flowing  forth  towards  its  conclusion,  like  a  gentle  and 
impid  stream,  between  graceful  hillsides  and  verdant  meadows." — Home  Journal. 

"This  is  a  story  of  country  life,  written  by  a  hand  whose  guiding  power  was  a  living 
soul.  The  pictures  of  life  are  speaking  and  effective.  The  story  Is  interestingly  told  and  Ua 
high  moral  aim  well  sustained.'' — Syracuse  Chronicle. 

" '  Farmingdale,'  while  it  has  many  points  in  common  with  some  recent  works  of  fio 
tion,  is  yet  highly  original  The  author  has  had  the  boldness  to  attempt  a  novel,  the  main 
Interest  of  which  does  not  hinge  either  upon  love  or  matrimony,  nor  upon  complicated  and 
entangled  machinery,  but  upon  a  simple  and  apparently  artless  narrative  of  a  frieodless 
girl." — Philadelphia  Eve.  Mail. 

"  The  author  studiously  avoids  all  forced  and  unnatural  incidents,  and  the  equally 
(kshionable  affectation  of  extravagant  language.  Her  style  and  diction  are  remarkable  for 
their  purity  and  ease.  Ia  the  conception  and  delineation  of  character  she  has  shown  her- 
self possessed  of  the  true  creative  power." — Com.  Adv. 

"  A  simple  yet  beautiful  story,  told  in  a  simple  and  beautiful  manner.  The  object  is  t« 
•how  the  devoted  affection  of  a  sister  to  a  young  brother,  and  the  sacrifices  which  shemad* 
fs*  him  from  childhood.  There  is  a  touching  simplicity  in  the  character  of  this  interesting 
female  that  wiU  please  all  readers,  and  benefit  many  of  her  sex." — Hartford  Courant 

**  The  tale  is  prettily  written,  and  breathes  throughout  an  excellent  moral  tone." — Bottom 
Daily  Journal. 

"  We  have  read  this  book ;  it  is  lively,  spirited,  and  In  some  parts  pathetic.  It«  sketchei 
cf  life  seem  to  us  at  once  graceful  and  vivid." — Albany  Argus. 

"The  book  is  well  written.  In  a  simple,  unpretending  style,  and  the  dialogue  is  natnrai 
•ad  easy.  It  is  destined  to  great  popularity  among  all  classes  of  readers.  Parents  who 
•tgect  placing  'love  tales'  in  the  hands  of  their  children,  may  purchase  this  volume  with- 
•nt  fear.  The  oldest  and  the  youngest  will  become  interested  in  its  fascinating  pages,  aai 
eloee  it  with  the  impression  that  it  is  a  good  book,  and  deserving  of  the  greatest  popnlutty/ 
—  Worc€«ter  Palladium. 


n.  APPLETON  &  CU.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


MRS.  COWDEN  CLAEKE'S  NEW  ENGLISH  NOVEL. 


The  Iron  Coufin,  or  Mutual  Influence, 

BY  MAEY  COWDEN  CLARKE, 

6   ilior  of   "  The  Girlhood  of  Shakspeark's  Hekoines    *  the     Ck>MPLvn 

Concordance  to  Shakspeare,"  Ac. 

One  handsomely  printed  volume,  large  12mo.  over  500  pages.  Price  $1.25— doth. 

"  Mrs.  Clarke  has  given  us  one  of  the  most  delightful  novels  we  have  read  for  many 
a  day,  and  one  which  Is  destined,  we  doubt  not,  to  be  much  longtr  lived  than  the  majority 
«f  books  of  its  class.  Its  chief  beauties  are  a  certain  freshness  In  the  style  in  which  the  In- 
cidents are  presented  to  us — a  healthful  tone  pervading  it — a  completeness  In  most  of  th* 
characters — and  a  truthful  power  in  the  descriptions." — London  Times. 

"  We  have  found  the  volume  deeply  interesting — its  characters  are  well  drawn,  whlla 
Rs  tone  and  sentiments  are  well  calculated  to  exert  a  purifying  and  ennobling  intluenca 
upon  all  who  read  it." — Savannah  liepublican. 

"The  scene  of  the  book  is  village  life  amongst  the  upper  class,  with  village  episodes, 
irhich  seem  to  have  been  sketched  from  the  life — there  is  a  primitive  6im|)lieity  and  gre^t- 
aess  of  heart  about  some  of  the  characters  which  keep  up  the  sympathy  and  interest  to 
the  end." — London  Globe. 

"  The  reader  cannot  fail  of  being  both  charmed  and  jiistructed  by  the  book,  and  ol 
hoping  that  a  pen  so  able  will  not  lie  \^\e."—Penn8ylvanian. 

"  We  fearlessly  recommend  it  as  a  work  of  more  than  ordinary  merit." — BinghampUm 
Daily  Republic 

"  The  great  moral  lesson  indicated  by  the  title-page  of  this  book  runs,  as  a  golden  thread, 
through  every  part  of  it,  while  the  reader  is  constantly  kept  in  contact  with  the  workings 
of  an  inventive  and  brilliant  raiu^"— Albany  Argus. 

"  We  have  read  this  fascinating  story  with  a  good  deal  of  interest  Human  nature  is 
well  and  faithfully  portrayed,  and  we  see  the  counterpart  of  our  story  in  cliaracter  and 
disposition,  in  every  village  and  district  The  book  cannot  fail  of  popular  reception."— 
Albany  and  Rochester  Courier. 

"  A  work  of  deep  and  powerful  influence.'' — Herald. 

"  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  with  the  delicacy  and  artistic  tast«  of  refined  womanhood,  has  in 
Atis  work  shown  great  versatility  of  talent." 

"  The  story  is  too  deeply  interesting  to  allow  the  reader  to  lay  it  down  till  be  has  read 
It  to  the  end." 

"The  work  is  skilful  in  plan,  graphic  in  style,  divettified  in  incident  and  true  to  nature.' 

"  The  tale  Is  charmingly  Imagined.  The  incidents  never  exceed  probability  but  s«em 
perfectly  natural     In  the  style  there  is  much  quaintness,  in  the  sentiment  much  tendernea,*" 

"  It  is  a  spirited,  charming  story,  full  of  adventure^  friendship  and  love,  with  characters 
n;«ely  drawn  and  carefully  discriminated.  The  clear  style  and  spirit  with  which  the  story 
to  presented  and  the  characters  developed,  will  attract  a  large  constituency  to  the  perusal" 

»  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke's  story  has  one  of  the  highest  qualities  of  fiction— it  is  no  flickering 
ihadow,  but  seems  of  real  growth.  It  is  full  of  lively  truth,  and  shows  nice  perception  of 
file  early  elements  of  character  with  which  we  become  acquainted  In  its  wholeness,  and  in 
th«  ripeness  of  years.  The  incident  is  well  woven:  the  color  is  blood-warm  ;  wd  ther«  1* 
tb«  preeence  of  a  sweet  grace  and  gentle  power  " 


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